


the yew tree

by Ireliss



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Canon-typical references to human experimentation, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Depression, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jealousy, M/M, Master/Servant, Plot Twists, Possessive Erik, Referenced anti-semitism, Secrets, Seduction, Suicide, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2020-01-20 21:22:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 53,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18533407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ireliss/pseuds/Ireliss
Summary: Erik has worked with Sebastian Shaw ever since Shaw rescued him from human experimentation when he was a boy. He is reluctantly enlisted into Shaw’s newest scheme: seducing the wealthy and enigmatic Lord Xavier and claiming his vast fortune. With Shaw posing as Xavier’s doctor, Erik goes undercover as Xavier’s personal manservant to convince him to fall in love with Shaw. But Xavier has secrets of his own, and it isn’t long before Erik starts having second thoughts about the whole thing…(featuring: mysteries, hidden agendas, and a whole heap of master/servant tropes)





	1. part i

**Author's Note:**

> This is an au inspired by the Korean film _The Handmaiden_ , but no canon knowledge at all is required. The whole fic has been extensively plotted out and I will post the plot outline if I don't end up completing it. Currently, I update around once a week on my [Tumblr](http://irelise.tumblr.com/tagged/my-writing) if you would like to follow along. Thank you so much to everyone who has reblogged/commented, you guys really inspire me to keep on going! <3
> 
> Please note I've chosen not to use archive warnings. Additional tags will be changed/added to as they become relevant.
> 
> Some setting notes: this takes place in vaguely historical Westchester which is a blend of multiple time periods because #aesthetic. Homosexuality is accepted and same-sex marriage completely normal.

**1.**

“No. Absolutely not. I’m impressed; this is the worst idea you’ve come up with yet.”

They’re in Shaw’s office, facing each other across Shaw’s rich mahogany desk, surrounded by shelves upon shelves of expensive trinkets and rare books that have never once been opened. Behind Shaw stands Emma Frost, bodyguard and enforcer and confidant all in one.

Not a year ago, Erik would have been the one in her position.

Now, Shaw smiles at him indulgently, and Erik’s scowl deepens. “Absolutely not,” Erik repeats. “Are you even listening to yourself? You want to seduce some rich naïve human boy, and you want _me_ to pose as his servant and help you. If it’s money you’re after, there are cleaner ways to go about it.”

Shaw hums. “One point three billion dollars, and more than twice that in assets. You would leave it in the hands of the humans?”

“That’s not the point and you know it.” A familiar anger is bubbling up in Erik. This is only the most recent in a series of arguments between himself and Shaw – yes, Shaw aims for the good of mutantkind, but his _methods._ He works far too closely with humans for Erik’s tastes. “You’re wasting our time. Our brothers and sisters are out there, and-”

“Do calm down.” Emma cuts in, looking bored. “Your capacity for long-term planning is astonishingly low.”

Smiling, Shaw shakes his head and tuts fondly. “Emma, be kind. Erik only has our best interests at heart. We all have our strengths, and Erik’s does not lie in diplomacy.”

Erik refuses to rise to the barb. “Then you should know there are better people you can use for your inane plan.”

And now Shaw is just _watching_ him, and Erik doesn’t like the shrewd look in his eyes one bit. “I thought you’d have had enough of your current job,” Shaw remarks. “But if that’s not the case…”

Nine months ago, he had been Shaw’s right hand. He had been right in the thick of things, the head of his own elite strike team. He had been a hunter, a spy, as comfortable working alone as he is with others.

It had all changed with the Trask incident. Bolivar Trask was one of the few humans aware of the existence of mutants, and Shaw and Frost had been carefully worming their way into his confidence, ferreting out his secrets.

Then Erik had hunted Trask down to one of his facilities. Facilities where he had kept mutant _children_. His own memories howling in his ears, he had made a bloody, brutal example of Trask. Erik still remembers the screams as he ripped Trask apart with the metal of his own facility right in front of his men.

 _You’ve cost us months of work,_ Shaw had raged. _Do you have any idea how much Trask was involved with? Do you know how impossible it’s going to be to track down all his contacts now that he’s dead?_

_He had children in his labs, you of all people can’t expect me to sit and do nothing!_

Erik doesn’t even know where those children are now. Shaw had cut him off right after that, re-assigning him to the middle of nowhere. Erik had been relegated to being little more than a glorified repairman, taking care of their safehouses and maintaining their equipment, kept far away from the action.

But he hasn’t been idle. He had developed a reputation for doing what needs to be done, and even in exile, plenty of Shaw’s mutants bring him news, and Erik now spends most of his days puzzling over reports. It’s intellectually stimulating work, satisfying in a different way from what he’s used to.

Even so, he’s looking forward to getting back into the field.

“I want you to listen to me very, very carefully, Erik.” Shaw waits for him to nod brusquely before he continues. “You have incredible power, son. You’re one of the most valuable assets I have. But right now, I can’t trust you. Emma and I are playing the long game. And yes, that means engaging with the humans. Until you prove that you can play nice, you’re nothing but a liability. Understand?”

“Don’t tell me you came up with this whole ridiculous plan just to test me.” Right now, the only thing being tested is Erik’s patience.

Shaw smiles lazily, self-satisfied. “No, that’s just a bonus. The young Lord Xavier’s fortune will put us in a good place, and I can’t imagine someone as sheltered as he is will be hard to charm.”

By now Erik’s frown is a permanent fixture on his face, but he’s grudgingly resigning himself to this mad scheme. “Fine. Seeing as you’re going to waste your time on this with or without me, you might as well tell me the rest of your plan.”

“Wonderful! I knew you would see things my way eventually.” Shaw shuffles some papers around. “I’ve already made arrangements. Lord Xavier is in poor health, and his uncle has hired me to be his personal physician. As for your part – like any man of his station, Lord Xavier has a personal manservant, but his has recently been dismissed due to some scandal. I’ve recommended you as a replacement for the role. Your duties will be to bring him meals, help him dress and bathe, flatter him and make him feel good about himself – nothing you can’t handle. And, of course, you’ll help him fall in love with me.”

Erik snorts. Behind Shaw, Emma’s cold eyes are bright with amusement.

Shaw chuckles. “Yes, yes, I know it’s beneath your dignity, but what’s that you always said? Anything for the cause?”

“This is barely related to the cause.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that just yet.” There’s something very pleased about the way Shaw is smiling, something that goes beyond his usual levels of smugness. “How much do you know about Charles Xavier?”

“What is there to know?” Rich, spoiled nobles, they’re all the same.

Shaw is still shuffling through his papers. “Well, you’re not wrong. He’s pretty enough, but unremarkable. From what Emma has gathered, he was orphaned young and his health has been frail ever since, so his uncle had him shuffled back from school in England to the family estate in Westchester and Xavier hasn’t left since. Xavier came of age around two years back, but his uncle is still looking after him. The uncle is a businessman, not nobility, but he enjoys pretending to be one. Holds all these fancy poetry sessions in the Xavier estate and has our Charles read for him and his friends. He’s a widower; Emma tells me he’s planning to marry Charles for his fortune.”

 _Humans._ Erik’s lip curls. “Anything else?”

The rustle of paper stops as Shaw picks out a document, sliding it over to Erik. “That’s the uncle, by the way. Kurt Marko.”

Erik stills. Shaw smiles.

“Associate of the late Bolivar Trask.”

***

The Xavier estate is less a mansion and more a ridiculous castle _,_ suffocating in its wealth and taste. Erik’s skin itches when he looks at the subdued décor. With Shaw, he had learnt to move among the rich and the noble as an equal – even found himself enjoying it, the spiteful satisfaction of fooling these aristocrats into welcoming their own enemy into their midst.

So it seems rather a step backwards to be in a place like this as a _servant._ Erik smiles wryly to himself as he looks at his new sleeping arrangements. He’s expected to be ready to attend to Xavier at all hours of the day and night, which meant the most logical place for him to sleep is directly across from Xavier’s room. A bell links their rooms together, ready to summon him like a dog at Xavier’s leisure.

Hah. Room. As if a servant is deserving of his own private room even though the estate has more bedrooms than any family could ever use. Erik almost has to admire their dedication to keeping servants as invisible as possible: the door to his room is hidden, indistinguishable from the surrounding wallpaper. The room itself is less a room and more an alcove, just large enough to fit a narrow cot. There is no light.

It’s long past midnight, and the major-domo had just finished showing him the mansion and outlining his duties. He’ll officially begin work tomorrow. Right now, his only duty is to sleep in the suffocating claustrophobia of his cot and be fresh and ready to serve tomorrow.

It’s harder than it sounds. Erik has slept in any number of uncomfortable places, but something about the low ceiling of the alcove, the flat discomfort of the cot… When he closes his eyes, he can almost feel leather straps tighten around his chest and wrists, strangling. Erik forces the memories from his mind, locking them back in the tight iron box where they belong, and guides himself through breathing in. Out. In.

A cry shatters the silence, jolting him out of an uneasy doze. Erik curses as he bolts upright and bangs his head against the ceiling. What the fuck? That cry had came from Xavier’s bedroom.

Erik doesn’t stop to think about propriety. He slams into Xavier’s room, eyes peeled for danger.

What he finds instead is pale young man sitting in his extravagant bed, staring quietly out the window. The moonlight washes all the colour out of the room, limning Xavier’s curls in silver and casting gentle shadows across his face. When Erik steps closer, he’s caught by the glimmer of blue in Xavier’s eyes.

Even when dishevelled with sleep, wearing nothing but a loose nightrobe, Xavier looks like the _magnum opus_ of master painter.

The moment breaks when Xavier turns to face him. “I’m sorry, did I disturb you?” His voice is soft and accented, obviously upper-class.

Erik is suddenly, awkwardly aware of how improper it is for a servant to burst into their master’s bedroom. Nothing for it now. If he gets tossed out on his ass on the first night here, then Shaw will just have to find himself a new lackey.

“Sorry, sir. I thought I heard a disturbance.”

“Ah, so I did wake you.” Xavier’s head tilts. In the shadow of the moonlight, it’s impossible to read his expression. “I apologize again.”

A spoiled noble apologizing to the help – that catches Erik off-guard. “Better safe than sorry,” he says gruffly. “What happened?”

Xavier’s gaze returns to the window. “An old nightmare,” he says, matter-of-fact, and Erik wonders how someone can be so open about his own weakness. “Look out the window. Do you see that tree?”

The estate is lined with trees, but it’s impossible to miss the one Xavier is talking about: an ancient, massive yew, black in the moonlight, dwarfing the surrounding trees.

“I was nine when my aunt hung herself there. Sometimes I still see her.”

***

Xavier sends him back to bed soon after that, and Erik rises early the next day after a fitful few hours of sleep. When he reports for duty, Xavier is sitting in his bed again. The collar of his nightgown is open, and Erik catches a glimpse of pale skin and defined collarbones. In daylight, Xavier is handsome in a boyish sort of way, his clear blue eyes serene as he smiles politely at Erik.

“You’re Erik, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Erik bows, movements perfect and precise. “At your service.”

“Good morning, Erik. Do help me get ready for the day, and then we’ll talk.”

 _Getting ready for the day_ means helping Xavier shave and then dress. Someone had already picked out Xavier’s clothes for him – crisp white shirt and blue waistcoat, followed by a dark coat on top. Xavier is clearly well-used to this, sitting docile as a painted doll while Erik knots his cravat and straightens his clothes.

Afterwards, Erik brings breakfast on a silver tray. He had expected a decadent meal, but Xavier must prefer to eat light in the mornings; there’s barely enough for one person, and in flagrant breach of protocol Xavier even invites him to share. It’s probably a test. Erik has no patience for it; he takes up the offer without comment, portioning out the food between the two of them.

Surprisingly, Xavier offers him the bigger portion.

“Are you not hungry, sir?”

Xavier’s mouth quirks into a half-smile, drawing Erik’s attention to the indecent red of his lips. “My appetite has always been low. You should help yourself. I imagine you had a long trip yesterday?”

“Yes.” Is Xavier trying to make small talk?

Xavier doesn’t seem to find his clipped responses discouraging. “Now, you seem like someone who appreciates efficiency, so why don’t we get straight to business? How much have you been told about your duties?”

Erik rattles off the list given to him yesterday, and Xavier nods. “Yes. My days are quite regimented, so you’ll have free run of the house for most of the day. Mornings I always spend with my uncle – he expects me to practice my poetry reading every day. Afternoons I have a fitness regimen my uncle expects me to adhere to. However, I’ve recently been given a new personal physician, and I imagine my afternoons will be taken up by that from now on. The evenings are my own; that is the only time I expect you to be at hand. Why don’t you come with me after breakfast? I’ll show you where Dr. Schmidt will be attending to me. Would you fetch me this evening at 5 o’clock, sharp?”

Shaw is right; this Xavier boy seems to live firmly under his uncle’s thumb. “Yes, sir.”

“Excellent.” Xavier smiles again, utterly serene. “I look forward to working with you, Erik.”

***

He is not allowed into Kurt Marko’s wing of the mansion – “My uncle is very particular, I’m afraid,” Xavier had said – so after he sees Xavier to the entrance, Erik leaves to make a start on his assigned duties.

As Xavier’s personal manservant, it is his duty to keep everything in Xavier’s rooms spotless and shining. Xavier’s rooms include the bedroom, of course, but there’s also a personal study and a spacious marble-tiled bathroom. A quick inspection reveals everything has already been cleaned to a shine; he doubts anyone would notice if he missed a day of cleaning.

Which leaves him plenty of time to sort through Xavier’s personal effects. He starts with the study first: for someone who spends so much time on poetry, Xavier’s collection is surprisingly devoid of poetry books. There are a few works of literature, but for the most part, the books are scientific in nature. Evolution, to be precise. Mutation. Most of the books are well-thumbed, showing signs of wear and tear – clearly, they aren’t just there for show.

Erik’s breath catches. Had Xavier also worked with Bolivar Trask?

With renewed urgency, Erik scans the study, rifling through drawers and rapidly flicking through sheafs upon sheafs of paper, searching for anything written in Xavier’s own hand. He doesn’t find much – Xavier’s writing only deals with theory, no signs of experimental work present.

Perhaps this is something Marko put him up to. It would fit with the pattern so far. Really, the only surprise here is that Marko hadn’t talked his nephew into marriage yet…

Erik puts everything back into order, heading for the bedroom next. It’s surprisingly devoid of personality. Going from what Shaw had said, Xavier should have spent most of his life in this mansion – so where are all the childhood trinkets? Old toys, photographs, posters, anything?

He’s a little reassured when he hunts down an inconspicuous box inside the closet filled with interestingly shaped rocks, the sort of collection a little boy would have put together. So, Xavier does have a personality buried somewhere deep inside. The closet doesn’t yield anything else of interest, so Erik moves on.

Or maybe he spoke too soon. There’s another closet, smaller in size, and when he throws the doors open he finds _costumes_ , of all things, yards of draping white fabric in a Greco-Roman style, intricately-patterned silken robes with a suspiciously feminine cut to them, pelts and furs, and that’s only the top layer. The closet is narrow, but deep. When Erik reaches out with his metal-sense, he can feel delicate jewellery and ornaments tucked away somewhere.

What does it all mean? Something to do with those poetry readings, perhaps? Or maybe Xavier has some sort of fetish – locked up in a mansion like this all his life, Xavier must be at least a little mad.

Erik shakes his head, amused, then puts the matter out of his mind and continues his investigation.

Hours later, he has little to show for his efforts, but time is ticking and he’s morbidly curious as to how Shaw’s plan is proceeding. Erik strides rapidly through the servant corridors – he’ll have to spend a few days familiarizing himself with every nook and cranny of the house – emerging by the room Xavier had shown him earlier.

The door is open just a crack. Stealthily, Erik peers in. It appears to be a guestroom hastily converted into a medical facility: it has the same décor as every other room, all understated opulence, but a number of machines have been set up, and Erik can spy newly-installed cabinets that must contain even more tools. Pills, too, and serums and sedatives and who knows what else. The whole thing makes his skin crawl.

Shaw and Xavier are seated at the lone table in the room, a touch closer than strictly appropriate. Their heads are bent together, and Erik can see their mouths moving, although the hushed murmur of their conversation is too quiet for him to make out. It’s difficult to see anything more from this angle; the most Erik can say is that they both look engrossed in the conversation.

Curiosity satisfied, Erik knocks on the door, watching quietly through the crack as the two of them pull apart.

“Is that you, Erik?” Xavier’s accent curls elegantly around his syllables. “Do come in, we were just finishing up.”

Erik opens the door and gives a perfunctory bow, not sparing a glance at Shaw. “Whenever you’re ready, sir.”

“Of course.” Xavier glances at Shaw. “I’ll see you again tomorrow then, Dr. Schmidt? Same time?”

“Yes. Have a good evening, Charles, and do try to relax a bit.”

Erik holds the door open for Xavier. They leave together, Erik walking a respectful step behind Xavier, wracking his brain for something to say. Why Shaw would enlist him to play _matchmaker,_ Erik has no idea; he hasn’t had a single successful relationship in his life.

“You and the doctor seem quite familiar with each other already,” he ends up saying.

If Xavier is offended by a servant speaking out of turn, it doesn’t show. He only hums thoughtfully. “Really? It’s only been our third session together. Still, I quite admire him. Being a doctor takes skill and dedication both.”

“So you’re enjoying your sessions together?”

“I don’t _mind_ them, which is more than I can say for some of my other doctors. Having to see a doctor daily is never a pleasant thing, I’m afraid, although I do count myself lucky that I have the option to do so.”

Surprisingly self-aware of Xavier. Erik feels a twinge – something, something unidentifiable, knowing the fate that awaits Xavier at the end of all this.

“He seems quite interested in you,” He says instead.

Xavier turns those vivid blue eyes of his on him, open and curious. “You know Dr. Schmidt, don’t you? As I recall, you were hired at his recommendation.”

“Yes. He was responsible for much of my training.” That was the cover story they had agreed on. It isn’t far from the truth.

“Would you say you know him well?”

Erik blinks. “Reasonably so. Why?”

“I do appreciate having someone so informed in my corner, as it were. You really think he’s interested in me?”

 _Damn._ Why did Shaw pick him for this? “Of course. He…” Think, Erik. “He thinks about your case often. He thinks about _you_ often.”

He’s spared having to come up with something more to say by their arrival back in Xavier’s rooms. “Would you like me to draw you a bath before dinner, sir?”

“Yes, thank you, Erik.”

Glad of an escape from the torturous conversation, Erik starts filling up the bathtub with hot water, channelling his frustration at the whole situation into the metal pipes to speed up the heating process. Slowly, the room fills with steam, lazy silver curls mixing with the scented oils he had poured into the bathwater.

“Bath’s ready,” he calls.

Xavier steps into the room and Erik rises carefully to his feet. This is one of his duties too, he remembers. Helping the young master bath.

He had helped Xavier dress earlier today, but helping him undress now – it’s strangely intimate. Erik has _eyes_ , he’s not blind to Xavier’s boyish handsomeness, and as he peels off all those formal layers he makes note of Xavier’s trim stature. He’s well-formed, lightly-muscled, and he’s been taught to hold himself well, graceful and noble.

Unattainable.

The steam wraps around them both, the heat settling a light flush onto Xavier’s creamy skin. Erik silently helps him into the bath, the water rippling as Xavier sinks in. “Shall I do your hair first?”

“Yes, please.”

Grabbing the shampoo, Erik begins to knead at Xavier’s scalp, working up a proper lather. And, finally, he’s treated to the sight of Xavier demonstrating an emotion other than self-possessed serenity: his head lolls back, pushing into Erik’s touch. When Erik’s nails drag lightly against his scalp, Xavier’s eyelashes tremble against his cheek. A whisper of a sigh drifts through the steam.

“I’ve always had a terribly sensitive scalp,” Xavier remarks without prompting. His eyes are still closed, his body a languid sprawl in the bathtub.  “Dr. Schmidt has told you about my migraines, yes?”

“Some. He worries about you.”

“Lovely of him, to be so concerned about a patient.”

Erik stifles a snort – Shaw and _lovely_ should never be in the same sentence together – and continues to massage Xavier’s scalp. He must be doing something right because Xavier sighs again, sinking deeper into the tub. “Lovely,” he repeats, sounding sleepy.

It’s strange. Erik had expected to hate every moment of servicing this undeserving human, but there’s something oddly soothing about taking care of another person like this. He’s gentle and careful as he helps Xavier wash the shampoo out of his hair before grabbing a bar of soap and a soft sponge to wash the rest of his body. “Sit up a little so I can get your back.”

Obediently, Xavier shuffles up, water rippling down the expanse of his back. There’s a rosy flush to his skin – making the silvery whiteness of scar tissue stand out in sharp relief. Xavier’s back is marked in long, thin stripes. Some of the marks have a terrible artistry to them, precise and even as the lined pages of a notebook, whereas others are a mess of criss-crosses and jagged edges.

Xavier must have sensed Erik’s surprise, because he blinks his eyes open, tilting his head back to look at Erik. “Everything all right?”

Erik hastily picks up the soap again. “Yes, of course. I didn’t expect…”

“It’s all right.” Xavier saves him from his floundering. He closes his eyes again. “There’s nothing wrong with a bit of curiosity; if anything, I would even say it’s quite healthy. Those scars are from my uncle. I don’t remember it so well now, but apparently I was quite the terror as a child, enough that he had to resort to the whip in order to discipline me. I would have hurt myself otherwise.”

How old was Xavier then? Seven? Eight? It doesn’t matter – no guardian should be taking a _whip_ to their charge, regardless of age.

 _Nobles,_ he thinks again, derisive. _Humans._

Erik smooths the sponge down Xavier’s back, studying the pale map of lines etched there. It looks innocuous now, but past experience makes it easy for Erik to imagine what it must have been like at the time, the splitting skin and the splash of blood, the pain and terror and humiliation.

Erik wonders if he’ll ever understand the way Xavier can be so frank about his weaknesses.

The silence has dragged on for too long. If Erik was in Xavier’s position, he wouldn’t appreciate pity, so he tries for levity instead. “You, a terror?”

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Xavier is smiling again.

They fall into a thoughtful silence again, Erik losing himself to the gentle rhythm of soaping and sponging. Xavier’s skin is wonderfully soft and water-sleek under his hands, the underlying muscle adding a pleasant firmness to his form. When Erik moves to wash Xavier’s front, he finds Xavier looking at him, biting at his lower lip. His cheeks are flushed, his hair dark and curling, tousled from the wash. A few stray drops of water trickle slowly down the pale column of his throat.

“You can join me, if you like.” Xavier says quietly. Erik can’t read the look in his eyes. “The water feels absolutely wonderful. Shall I do your back for you?”

“I…” His mouth is dry. “That doesn’t seem very appropriate. My lord.”

Xavier’s expression doesn’t change. “Of course. It was only a thought. I’m sorry, did I make you uncomfortable?”

Erik shakes his head mutely.

 

**2.**

Shaw had prepared tea for them today; most generous. He balances the cup on his saucer, breathing in the smoky scent as he watches Shaw move around the room.

“And how have things been progressing on your end? Any complications?” Shaw asks.

“Not as such, but I admit he is different from what I was expecting.”

“Oh? I’ve always thought he was simple. No depth to him at all. It’s why I chose him for this plan.”

His skin itches. “Do try not to ruin everything with your overconfidence.”

Shaw laughs. It’s an unpleasant sound, far too smug by half. “You worry too much.” He picks up a book. “Ready to move onto the next phase?”

***

Erik knocks on the door, a stack of books balanced precariously in his arms. “In the study,” Xavier calls, and Erik lets himself in.

Xavier is at his desk, the gas lamp bathing his face in a warm glow. “Erik! How did your errand for Dr. Schmidt go?”

“He wanted you to have these.” Erik sets the books on the desk and steps back. Xavier picks up one immediately, flicking it open.

“Oh, this is wonderful. Come see, Erik.”

Obligingly, Erik steps closer again, peering at the pages. The paper is of fine quality, the print crisp and clear, but the text itself is too technical for him to grasp without further study.

“Dr. Schmidt has kindly agreed to tutor me in the medical sciences,” Xavier says, sounding delighted. “He said he would lend me a few books from his personal collection; this must be it.”

Erik shakes his head. “No, these are for you to keep. He said they’re a gift.”

“Truly?”

And here’s an opportunity to slip in another sly comment about Shaw’s high regard for Xavier, but there’s a bad taste in Erik’s mouth as he says, “He’s told me that you’re one of the cleverest people he’s ever met, and he would be honoured to help you achieve your potential.”

A charming dusting of pink settles over Xavier’s cheeks and he absently flips to another page. “It’s very kind of him to say. Going to university has always been one of my dearest ambitions, but my health makes it impossible, and my uncle has been reluctant to hire more tutors for me when it’s unlikely I’ll be able to put their knowledge to any practical use. Have you had much formal schooling, Erik?”

“No.”

“But you’re literate?”

“Yes, Dr. Schmidt taught me my letters and numbers. Basic sciences. Enough to get by.”

Xavier toys absently with his book, tongue darting out to run against his upper lip. “Would you – that is, only if you want to, would you like to join me in the evenings when I study? I’m sure you’ve noticed already –” Xavier glances at the bookshelves around them “– evolution and genetics are my preferred fields, but I have plenty of old textbooks lying around on all manner of subjects. I’m sure we can find something to your interest.”

Erik is no academic. He values knowledge only for its practical use, but something in him stirs at the thought of learning about mutation – his _heritage_ – even if it’s from a human.

There’s just one thing holding him back. “…What do you want from me?”

“I’m sorry?”

He knows he shouldn’t be questioning Xavier like this, but he can’t stop worrying at the question like a hound on the scent. “Men like you, men of your station, they don’t just _offer_ things. So tell me, what do you really want?”

That unreadable look comes over Xavier’s eyes again. “Oh, my friend. You’re so quick to believe the worst in people.”

 _My friend?_ Erik bristles defensively at the appellation. “I have my reasons.”

“I know,” Xavier says simply. “And I’m sure they’re good reasons. Better safe than sorry, yes?

“Exactly.” He isn’t going to let Xavier off the hook. Erik looks at him, angling his chin up in challenge. “Well?”

Xavier’s mouth quirks, giving him a rueful look. “Would you believe it if I said I’m lonely?”

And there it is again – Xavier’s damnable openness about his own weakness. A familiar spark of anger flares up in Erik’s chest. “So, what, am I going to be your charity case? Are you going to pretend I’m your equal? Your friend? I can’t be your equal and your servant at the same time, my _lord_ , that’s not the way things work.”

Xavier looks surprised, and then _delighted,_ the madman. Erik scowls. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing at all.” He smiles. “Thank you for your honesty, Erik. So, is that a yes to evening lessons?”

“Did you hear a single word I said?”

Xavier laughs, rising to his feet. “Come, let’s see if we can find a good textbook for you to start with.”

***

They develop a routine after that. Every evening, after Erik retrieves Xavier from his sessions with Shaw, he helps Xavier bathe and brings him dinner (Xavier must have an enormous lunch with his uncle, because his dinners are as frugal as his breakfasts), then the two of them retreat to the study, sitting side by side on the armchairs or at the desk, depending on what strikes Xavier’s fancy that particular night. Often, Xavier reads aloud to him. All that poetry recital must be good training because Xavier is an engaging speaker, with just the right balance of liveliness and seriousness. His enunciation is perfect, and Erik admits (very privately) that his accent has a certain charm.

Tonight, Xavier reads from a book on the origins of humankind: “ _As we peer back through the fossil record,_ ” he recites, _“through layer upon layer of long-extinct species, many of which thrived far longer than the human species is ever likely to do, we are reminded of our mortality as a species._ ”

Xavier pauses, and Erik watches the back-and-forth dart of Xavier’s eyes as he scans the page before continuing.

“ _There is no law that declares the human animal to be different, as seen in this broad biological perspective, from any other animal.”_ And with an air of finality, Xavier concludes: “ _There is no law that declares the human species to be immortal_.”

Erik scoffs, rearranging his long legs into a more comfortable position. “Leakey must be delusional if he seriously believes that humans will quietly lie down and accept their own extinction.”

Xavier looks up at him. The gas lamp casts soft shadows, smoothing the angles of his face. He looks impossibly young. “Really? Personally, I find it quite comforting to know I’m part of something bigger.”

Scowling, Erik waits for Xavier to start preaching about how _we’re all part of a bigger, unseen plan,_ but Xavier only says: “Even if I were to die tomorrow, nothing about the world will change. The Earth will continue with or without me – just as it will continue even after the last human is gone.” His gaze flicks past Erik, to the window, and he smiles ruefully. “I’m sorry, my friend, I don’t think I’m explaining this very well.”

“You’re not,” Erik grumbles. “The way you talk, it sounds like you think nothing lasts.”

“You don’t agree?”

“I don’t. I’ve seen too many people hide behind that sort of philosophy as an excuse to do nothing.”

Xavier looks delighted. “Why, Erik, are you calling me lazy?”

Mad, he’s absolutely mad. “You’re free to interpret it however you want,” Erik shoots back, wondering why he isn’t more annoyed at Xavier. “All I’m saying is – you’re bright. You’ve got the money and the connections. If you wanted to, you could make a lasting difference.”

“A difference to what?” Xavier is looking out the window again.

 _Mutants,_ Erik thinks. He follows Xavier’s gaze, looking past the deep dark of the yew tree, past the fencing that marks the boundaries of the property, all the way to the emptiness beyond. He wonders if it’s true, if Xavier has never left the estate since his arrival here.

“What’s important to you?” He finally asks.

Xavier closes his eyes. “I don’t know.”

Erik wants to shake him, but he just takes a steadying breath. “Then that’s something you need to figure out,” he says gruffly. “You’re not going to spend your whole life inside this mansion.”

“Sometimes I wonder.” Xavier shakes his head, propping his book open again. “Well! That was certainly a tangent. Let’s keep going, shall we?”

Erik can recognize someone trying to make an escape. He almost presses the point – but then reality floods back in and he remembers, for the first time that night, the mission. He’s only a servant here, no matter how much familiarity Xavier treats him with.

“We were talking about extinction,” he prompts Xavier.

“Right, yes. The extinction of the human race – that’s quite a thought, isn’t it?”

“It does seem unlikely.” More’s the pity. “It’s in human nature to fight to the bitter end.”

Xavier taps at his bottom lip. “Must it always come down to a fight? Extinction can happen for all sorts of reasons. You remember when we’ve read about the Neanderthals?”

“That’s a terrible example,” Erik says dryly, “considering violent conflict with _Homo sapiens_ caused their extinction.”

“That’s only one theory – one of a number of factors, in fact.” Xavier’s mouth curves into a generous smile. “I prefer the theory that interbreeding – a result of peaceful cohabitation with _Homo sapiens_ – had contributed to their fade.”

“Make love, not war? All that poetry of yours has filled your head with too many stories, Charles.”

Wait. Xavier is looking at him with bright eyes. _You used my name,_ Erik can almost hear him say.

This wasn’t – This isn’t supposed to happen. What is he _doing_ – playing house with Shaw’s toy, teasing and bantering and debating? The drumbeat of his heart rolls against his chest like thunder. He’s making a mistake. He’s getting too close.

“Erik.” In the space of a blink, Xavier has leaned forward.  His fingers are warm where they curl around Erik’s wrist, grounding him. “It doesn’t have to be a fight all the time.”

He breathes out harshly, no longer sure what they’re talking about. “Yes. It does.”

“No.” The firelight catches Xavier’s eyes, scattering gold along the lines of intensity on his face. “We – both of us, and all humans, for that matter – we can choose the better path. We all have the potential to make the right choices.”

Xaviers’ fingers are a firebrand against his skin. Erik swallows, pulling his wrist away. “If you’re going to pin your hopes on other people’s potential, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

“But I must,” Xavier murmurs. “If I can’t have hope, then what else is left?”

 _God._ Shaw is going to destroy him. Erik is going to hand him over to Shaw on a silver platter and Shaw will suck him dry and toss his broken body aside.

Desperately, Erik reminds himself that Xavier is only a _human_ , a spoiled entitled human too lazy and complacent to look past the high walls of his opulent cage. He’d never willingly help the mutant cause. The cause is the only thing that matters.

The words ring hollow.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growls softly. “The world isn’t as kind as you think it is.”

“Maybe not, but you are kinder than you think you are.”

Erik huffs out a sardonic laugh. “No. I’m really not.”

Suddenly, he can’t bear to be in the room for another second longer. “May I be excused?”

It’s a crisp and clear night outside. Erik breathes in deep, the cool breeze settling into his lungs, his heart, his head. An exhale, and he pictures the choked mess of his thoughts flowing out of him, leaving his mind clear once more, his convictions solidifying again, pure and unyielding as steel.

Gravel crunches under his boots as he makes his way through the grounds, and then he’s leaving the path behind, treading through grassy fields. It’s peaceful here, his only company the wind and the soft hum of wildlife.

The yew tree looms before him. Its diameter is impossibly thick, the complex tangle of its branches sweeping wide, casting him in shadow. The yew is one of the longest-lived trees, Erik recalls. This tree was here long before he was born, and it will remain here long after he dies. He looks up at the gnarled branches, thinking about Charles, thinking about the night they first met, thinking about a noose and a pale, dangling body.

A low stone wall stands just behind the yew tree, demarcating the edges of the property. He could just leave right now, Shaw be damned. Erik can see it so clearly: vaulting over the stone wall, following the road until he reaches a village, stealing a ride on an automobile, on and on until he returns to where he’s supposed to be. The safehouse. The Brotherhood. He can return to the fight right _now_ , and Shaw can’t stop him. His fingers clench as he pictures the facilities, the scream of steel and the screams of the humans all twisting grotesquely together and collapsing in a spray of iron.

Erik turns and walks back to the mansion.

 

**3.**

It’s ginger tea today. He inhales deeply, drawing in the sharp scent, trying to will away his burgeoning headache. Nearby, Shaw bustles around the room and checks on his stores of sedatives and serums with all the loving care of a deranged artist.

He looks away, wrapping his hands more firmly around the heat of the teacup.

“So,” Shaw says. “Progress?”

“Nothing of note to report. You?”

“Really?” The carpet muffles the click of Shaw’s heels as he circles closer. “I hear you’ve been getting quite _cozy_ with him. Is that going to be a problem?”

He makes himself smile coldly. “Spying on us, are you?”

“I don’t need to.” Again, Shaw’s voice drips self-satisfaction. “He reports everything to me. Keep that in mind, will you?”

“No need to threaten me.” His right temple throbs, the headache setting in. Not even the ginger tea helps. “I haven’t forgotten what’s at stake. I’ll play my part.”

***

Very early on, Erik had learnt that getting Xavier out of bed is a test of his patience. Left to his own devices, Xavier will happily fall asleep again, then have the gall to act surprised when Erik wakes him for the second time. Then the third.

What is Xavier going to do if he doesn’t have a manservant at his beck and call? Just sleep the whole day away? Erik scowls as he clambers out of his narrow cot. Thanks to a poor night’s sleep and a throbbing headache, he’s in an even less charitable mood than usual. He raps sharply on Xavier’s door – as predicted, there’s no response.

By now, opening Xavier’s door without further invitation is just a matter of routine, so Erik doesn’t think twice about stepping into the room. It’s surprisingly dim inside.

“Rare to see you shut the curtains,” Erik remarks. Drawing Xavier into conversation makes him less likely to go right back to sleep, he’s found.

Today, the Xavier-shaped lump on the bed doesn’t move.

“Sir? Are you all right?”

He’s answered by a muffled: “Terribly sorry, Erik, but I don’t feel well today. Why don’t you take the day off?”

“What’s wrong?”

“…Migraine.”

Oh, for – As if Xavier is the only one here with a headache. Determined to get Xavier up – it’s for his own good – Erik stomps over to the curtains and throws them wide. “Rise and sh–”

“ _Close the bloody curtains!”_

Erik yanks the curtains shut before he even registers himself moving.

“Sorry,” Xavier grits out. The air seems to pulse with his discomfort; Erik gets a distinct sense that Xavier is fighting down nausea to talk. He looks genuinely unwell – of course, that uncharacteristic shout is already a siren blaring that there’s something wrong with Xavier. “I’m quite sensitive to light when I’m like this. Noise, too.”

Guilt twinges, but Erik firmly pushes it down. “Should I get Dr. Schmidt?”

“No need, he’s given me medication already.”

Erik has to fight the sudden urge to hunt down that medication and toss the lot of it out. “Anything else I can do for you?”

There’s a small movement as Xavier turns, curling further away. “I’ll be fine with some rest. I was quite serious earlier, Erik – just take the day off. Please. I’d like to be alone.”

 _You don’t want something to eat? Or some water?_ Erik opens his mouth – then immediately snaps his jaws shut again, lips thinning. He’s not here to play _nursemaid_ to a pampered noble. If Xavier wants to be alone, then he’ll get his wish.

“Have a good rest, sir,” he says evenly. This is none of his business.

***

Banished from Xavier’s room, Erik is left at loose ends. As soon as he catches himself dithering, Erik growls.

 _Damn._ He’s grown soft from all that time spent playing servant. He finally has some time to himself – he should have jumped straight to investigating the connection between Xavier’s uncle and Bolivar Trask. Shaw had said he’d been carrying out his own investigations, but Erik thinks, very sourly, that Shaw has been too busy fooling around with Xavier to do much of anything.

With his frustration at this whole situation driving his powers, Erik prowls along the servant corridors, reaching out with his metal-sense in search of anything suspicious. It’s long, tedious work: the mansion is labyrinthine in its enormity, and there is metal absolutely everywhere. Forget looking for a needle in a haystack; Erik feels like he’s hunting for one specific needle in a room filled with needles. It doesn’t help that he’s not sure what he’s looking _for._ Hell, he doesn’t even know if there’s anything to be found.

Around noon, he takes a break for lunch and a quick check-in with Shaw, who predictably has nothing useful to say. “Just let him sleep it off, you know how fragile humans are,” had been his input.

Completely useless.

After lunch, Erik switches tracks, confining his search to Kurt Marko’s wing of the manor. The whole thing is inaccessible: locks he has no problems with, but there are plenty of servants working in the wing, not to mention Marko himself. Erik isn’t willing to take the risk of being caught when he’s still largely fumbling about in the dark at this stage. It’s not worth it.

Finding the nearest room to Marko’s wing, Erik slips inside and locks the door. He settles himself cross-legged on the plush rug, closing his eyes. To search Marko’s whole wing with his powers… He doesn’t know if he’s strong enough. He’ll need to tap into the deepest recesses of his anger for this.

Erik exhales, hating the shaky edge to his breathing as he forces himself to reach for his childhood memories. The lab in the underground bunker, alternatively lit in stark white lights that hid nothing or plunged into absolute darkness. The dead metal of the examination table. The leather straps, rubbing his wrists raw.

Anger and hate and _fear –_ that’s the source of his power. Erik can feel it come to life, a thing of deadly edges that sends all the metal in the room shivering, and he smiles grimly to himself.

Never again. Shaw had taught him how to harness his power; he’ll never have to be afraid again.

On instinct, he sends his power diving down, down, far below the ground, where men believe their secrets are safely hidden away from the light of the sun.

And there – a bunker, lined with reinforced steel. Erik drags up more memories: the scientists, their cultured calm, the way they chat about their weekend plans while Erik writhes on the examination table in between rounds of testing.

The steel begins to warp from the force of his anger. Erik bares his teeth. _Focus._ Reconnaissance, not destruction.

Not yet.

With the distance, it’s near impossible to make out anything – he specializes in blunt force and raw power, not finesse. But he thinks – or maybe it’s his memories muddling his perception – that there are machines down there. Metal filing cabinets, many of them. He tries to search for surgical tools, but his anger is beginning to burn itself out, replaced by a nauseating churn in the pit of his stomach.

Breathing heavily, Erik lets go, flopping uselessly onto the rug. Above him hangs a chandelier done in delicate metal tracery. It feels dead. All the metal in the room feels dead. Erik closes his eyes, keeping them closed until the burnt-out spark of his power slowly comes back to life and the feeling of vulnerability fades.

He’s found out all he can for today. Erik glances out of the window. The sun is just beginning to set, dappling the grounds in rosy golden hues. Usually, he’d be bringing dinner to Xavier around now, and then they’ll settle down together in the study, chatting idly as they decide on which books to study that night.

He lies there, indecisive, then gets to his feet.

Half an hour later, he knocks (very, very gently) on Xavier’s door, a tray balanced on his other hand. “Are you awake, sir?”

He _thinks_ he hears Xavier saying “come in”. Good enough. Erik opens the door just a crack, trying to avoid letting too much light into the room.

“Erik, hello.” Xavier is gingerly pulling himself up to a sitting position, his usual grace absent. It’s too dark to see much of anything in the room, but Erik is pretty sure Xavier looks like shit.

He steps closer to the bed. “I brought you some food,” he says gruffly. “Crackers, yoghurt, some nuts.”

Xavier can only manage a wan smile, but Erik can feel the gratitude coming off him in waves. “Thank you. It’s very thoughtful of you, my friend.”

“Just doing my job.” Feeling unaccountably awkward, Erik sets down the tray. “Do you want me to draw you a bath?”

“It sounds lovely, but I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Xavier says, even though up close Erik can see that his curls are plastered to his forehead with sweat. Erik opens his mouth, about to argue, but then he remembers Shaw’s implication that Xavier had been dealing with these migraines all his life and closes his mouth again. He’ll trust that Xavier knows how to deal with his own condition by now.

“Anything else I can do for you?” He asks instead. “How are you feeling?”

“Still rather poorly, I’m afraid, but I expect I’ll be mostly recovered by tomorrow.” Xavier closes his eyes. “Did you want to use the study? You’re welcome to it.”

Indignation flares – how _typical_ for a noble to assume he had ulterior motives for something as simple as bringing food.

Xavier grimaces, rubbing his head. “I’m sorry, Erik, did I upset you somehow?” He sounds so exhausted that the fight leaves Erik in a rush.

“No,” he says curtly. “You should eat. Have you been keeping hydrated? I’ll bring you more water.” Xavier keeps a pitcher of water by his bedside. It’s near empty, so Erik goes to top it up, fetching a towel and an extra basin of cool water while he’s at it. Xavier stirs but doesn’t protest as Erik wets the towel and begins to wipe gently at his forehead.

After a while, Xavier sighs quietly. “I am sorry. I had hoped to spend a more enjoyable evening with you, but…”

“It’s not your fault.”

“It’s poor recompense, but the least I can do is offer you the use of my study. I don’t know if I’ve made it clear enough before, but it’s open to you at any time, Erik.”

He can practically feel Xavier’s distress and shame beating down on him. “Charles.” Impulsively, Erik leans closer, gently smoothing the towel against Charles’ forehead one more time. “Just relax, all right?”

Charles tilts his face back, giving Erik easier access. It would be so, so easy to lean down and brush a kiss against his forehead. “All right.”

***

Xavier is worryingly subdued the next morning, but at least he’s no longer flinching away from light and noise. Still, Erik tries to be gentle as he helps Xavier through his morning routine, privately disturbed at the lifeless look in his eyes.

Seeming to catch his unease, Xavier forces a smile. “I’ll be fine, Erik. It always takes me another day or two to recover.”

Erik looks up from where he’s kneeling on the ground, helping Xavier put on his long white stockings. The cloth whispers against Xavier’s fair skin as he draws it up, stretching it taut. “I’m surprised your uncle is still making you read when you’re like this.”

Xavier’s gaze flicks to the window. “He gets terribly displeased if I fall behind on practice.”

And here’s an opportunity to ask about Kurt’s wing of the mansion – Erik seizes his chance without hesitation. “I think I’d like to listen to you read someday. Does he ever show you off?”

“Oh, yes, but they’re rather exclusive affairs.” Erik has the keen mind of a hunter: he immediately narrows in on the way Xavier’s hands clasp together – a nervous gesture? “I can always read to you in private, heaven knows I do plenty of that already.”

Erik smooths the stocking against Xavier’s skin, then cradles his foot, his thumb brushing against the shapely ankle as he slides the smart buckled shoe into place. “What, planning to read to me from memory? I don’t see a single poetry book in that study of yours,” he says, half-teasing. “That uncle of yours must have quite the collection to make up for your deficit.”

“I didn’t know you had such an interest in poetry, Erik.”

“More like curiosity. I’ve never seen a collection of poetry before, and your uncle guards his so jealously.”

Xavier’s hands twist in his lap. “You aren’t missing much.”

“So what’s it like?” Erik finishes putting on the other shoe and Xavier stands, allowing Erik easy access to get everything straightened up one last time.

“Like any other room full of books. It’s not terribly interesting.” Xavier exhales slowly, rubbing at his temples. “I’m sorry, could you please go see if Dr. Schmidt is around? I can feel another headache coming.”

“What are you hiding, Charles?” Erik murmurs, but Xavier only blinks at him in wordless question, still rubbing slowly at his temples. Erik can tell when it’s fruitless to press a point. With a grunt, Erik pulls himself to his feet, heading off to find Shaw, who dismisses him for the rest of the day.

Erik spends another few hours wrestling with his powers, trying not to think about what Shaw could be doing in Xavier’s _bedroom._ His rage sparks and flares, but try as he might, the finesse he needs for investigating Marko’s bunker simply refuses to come to him.

He’s exhausted when he trudges back to Xavier’s room later that evening, a touch earlier than he normally would. Even before he rounds the corner, he can hear the murmur of excited voices, Xavier’s soft laugh drifting into the hallway.

Erik’s heart stutters. He takes the last few steps almost at a run, knocking sharply on the door and flinging it open.

Shaw and Xavier both look up. They’re seated together at the small reading table, bodies angled together, a stack of books open in front of them. Shaw’s hand is resting on top of Xavier’s. The light of the setting sun falls gently over Xavier, dusting his cheeks with a rosy glow of health.

And – Xavier is _smiling_ , bright and warm, full of uncomplicated happiness. Again, Erik’s heart constricts in his chest. Charles had never smiled at him like that before.

“Erik! Is it time for Dr. Schmidt to leave already?” Charles gets to his feet, his hand slipping away from Shaw’s.

Erik nods tightly. Shaw is staring at him. He’s smiling, but his eyes are cold, and Erik can hear clear as day: _Remember the mission._ “I’ve just come to see him out.” He bows to Shaw. “Whenever you’re ready, doctor.”

“Nice show,” Shaw mutters to him once they’re alone, striding along the mansion’s hallways. The gas lamps throw ominous flickering shadows onto Shaw’s face. How could Xavier trust him so easily?

“See you tomorrow, _doctor,_ ” Erik growls, showing him the door.

Xavier is still at his desk when Erik returns, nibbling at his bottom lip as he leafs through one of Shaw’s books. The smile had left his face, but he looks peaceful sitting there, the very portrait of a young scholar, studious and thoughtful.

 _The mission,_ Erik reminds himself. “You were enjoying yourself.” A statement, not a question.

Xavier hums. “Come join me, Erik.”

Frowning, Erik settles himself into the chair that Shaw had just vacated. “Is Dr. Schmidt really so charming?”

Xavier arches an eyebrow, but at least he has the good grace to give Erik a proper answer: “He’s intelligent, a good conversationalist, and he doesn’t think I’m feigning my illness. It’s not so easy to find someone like that.”

Erik grits his teeth. “Is that all it takes to win your heart?”

“…Whatever are you talking about, Erik?”

“When you’re with him, you look –” No. He can’t do this. Shaw was a fool for thinking he could play matchmaker. “Never mind.” Erik stands abruptly. “I’ll go draw you a bath.”

***

Xavier’s health dips up and down over the next week, but even on his worst days he still invites Erik to spend evenings in his study. They’ve taken to reclining on the couch together, Erik listening with his eyes half-closed as Xavier’s cultured voice speaks of mutation and evolution, extinction and cohabitation.

(“Peace is a dream, Charles,” Erik had argued once. “ _Homo sapiens_ would never accept the idea of a more evolved species of human. Look at the world now – look at how humans war against each other!”

Erik is a mutant. He is a Jew. Peaceful protest, doing things through the _proper_ channels – they are quaint weaknesses he doesn’t have the luxury to afford, not when the potential cost is so high. The deck is stacked against his people from the very start.

Humans only understand power and fear. He will speak to them in the only language they comprehend.

Charles had looked at him, searching, and Erik had braced himself for a reprimand, but Charles had only nodded. “I understand. I don’t even disagree entirely. But if there is even the slimmest possibility for peace…”

“I don’t believe in wishing for the impossible.” He had said, looking directly at Charles. The words had tasted bitter.)

It’s bleak and cold when Erik wakes that morning, and outside the soft roar of rain cascades down on the mansion – the perfect sort of weather to spend sleeping in. He grimaces as he goes through his morning routine, ready for a gruelling exercise in getting Xavier out of bed.

To his surprise, Xavier is already up when he enters the room. He’s sitting by the window, his eyes fixed in the distance – looking the yew tree again, Erik bets.

Something about the scene sends a shiver crawling up Erik’s spine.

“I didn’t expect to see you out of bed already,” he remarks, joining Xavier at the window. He can’t shake the sense of wrongness. “…Did you see her again? Your aunt?”

Pale, Xavier bites his lip and nods.

Erik makes a decision. “Come on. Back to bed.” When he reaches to place a hand on Xavier’s shoulder to shepherd him there, he almost snatches his hand back – Xavier is freezing under his thin nightshirt. “How long have you been sitting here? You’ll catch a cold.”

“It might be too late for that, my friend,” Xavier murmurs, but he allows Erik to guide him back into the warmth of his blankets. Erik bustles around the room, heating up some water for tea. A quick glance at Xavier confirms he’s still staring out the window; Erik carefully flexes his power, just a little, encouraging the metal of the kettle to heat up more quickly. Soon, the comforting smell of chamomile fills the air. Erik makes two cups, going to sit with Xavier on the edge of his bed once he’s done.

Some colour returns to Xavier’s waxen skin after he takes the first sip. He smiles at Erik, tired but grateful, and Erik feels a strange warmth bloom in his chest.

“Want me to tell your uncle you’re sick today?” He offers. Xavier’s intelligence is wasted on florid poetry anyway; Erik thinks both of them would much prefer a morning of studying together.

“Very tempting.” Xavier smiles again, and Erik relaxes slightly, seeing a bit of spark return to Xavier’s eyes.

“Then let me tempt you.”

He knows right away that Xavier will refuse and he’s right; Xavier shakes his head with a look of regret. “I must keep up with my responsibilities,” he says, but makes no move to get out of bed.

Impulsively, Erik reaches out to hold Xavier’s hands. It fits perfectly into his. “You sure you’re fine?”

He’s lost his fair share. He knows all about ghosts.

Xavier’s fingers curl against his, and he holds on with surprising strength. “No. I’m not.” He says with an honesty Erik can never match. “My parents died when I was young, too young to remember them properly, and my uncle and I always had a…somewhat strained relationship. My aunt is the only real family I can remember.”

“You two were close?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Certainly, I felt a kinship with her, because….” Xavier exhales sharply, looking at the yew tree, a dark shape in the distance shrouded by mist and rain. “I don’t know. I can’t be sure, but, I think – I think… It was my fault. I drove her to it. It was all my fault.” His voice hitches.

 _I was nine when my aunt hung herself there._ Erik grips his hand more tightly. “Charles –”

“I’m sorry.” Charles’ voice is very soft. He’s still looking at the yew tree, but he doesn’t shake Erik’s hand off. “I’m not quite ready to talk about this yet.”

“All right.”

Charles look absurdly grateful at being given even that small bit of allowance. Erik frowns to himself. “More tea?”

“No, I’m…” Charles bites his lower lip, squeezing Erik’s hand. “I’d like it if you could just stay with me. Just for a while.”

“All right,” Erik repeats, and Charles manages a small smile.

They sit in silence, drinking their tea. After a while, Charles quietly asks: “Would you mind telling me a bit about your family?”

 _My parents are dead._ Erik bites back the reflexive answer, thinking about Charles’ request. “…What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Were you close?”

One of Erik’s most cherished memories – faded and rusted by now, but still cherished – is of the day his mutation had awoken, an uncontrollable mini-storm of coins and magnets and paperclips hovering around him as he shrieked with delight and his mother laughed and laughed. _“Come see,”_ she had exclaimed to his father the moment he had returned from work. _“Look at what our Erik can do!”_

She had loved him so much. She had been so proud, even as she cautioned him to be careful, because the world is not as kind as it should be.

He can’t share this memory with Charles.

He tries to search for another memory, but it had been so very long since he had allowed himself to think of his parents that everything feels veiled in dust, forgotten, overshadowed by their untimely deaths. Erik feels sick to his stomach when he realizes that he had not thought of them for years except in connection to vengeance.

Charles is still watching him, a soft look in his eyes. “It’s all right if you don’t remember.”

“I should,” Erik says harshly. “I owe it to them.”

“Beating yourself up over it won’t help, yes?” Charles’ thumb strokes along his knuckles. “If you’re trying to recall happy memories, then falling back on your anger won’t help you, Erik.”

Erik blinks. “She said something similar once. My mother.” Memory comes to him in bits and pieces, snatches of half-remembered events jumbled together to give an overall impression. “That I was too angry all the time.”

“You have a vision for the world. You value justice. And when the world falls short of the mark, I think your disappointment turns to anger.”

For someone who’s been locked up in the mansion all his life, Charles can be uncannily perceptive.

“Even when I was a kid?” Erik smiles wryly. “You know what, I don’t think you’re wrong. I was always angry about our circumstances.”

“Circumstances?”

Erik takes a deep breath and takes the plunge. “We were Jewish.” He looks at Xavier, daring him to comment, but Charles only looks at him with honest curiosity. “I’ve always known that we had to be careful. That people hate, and you can’t reason with them because they _want_ to hate. The world isn’t fair.”

Charles nods, but Erik doesn’t think he understands completely. Nobody can, unless they’ve lived it themselves.

“I can’t imagine your parents were happy that you had to be so angry so young.”

Erik grasps at the delicate, moth-eaten threads of his memories, tarnished like old silver. It frustrates him that he can’t quite recall specific words, specific conversations, but the gist of it gradually returns to him. It helps that Charles is giving him specifics to work with. “No,” he says slowly, “I think they were glad that I wanted to improve the world. To repair it. But they also wished I could live in the present more. Appreciate what was around me.”

“It sounds like quite the balancing act.” Charles looks thoughtful, tongue darting out to run against his upper lip. “But it makes sense, doesn’t it? Taking the time to remember what you’re fighting _for,_ I suppose that would make you fight harder…”

“Why, Charles, I thought you hated fighting.”

Erik grins when that gets a short laugh out of Charles. “It’s only a figure of speech!” Charles protests, still smiling. “I’m not talking about violence, of course; there are different ways of fighting. Or _repairing_ , as you so eloquently put it.”

“Maybe.” They sit in silence for awhile longer, but Erik’s thoughts are humming: it’s as if his mind had grown fogged over the years without his realizing it. Now, he’s carefully stripping away the layers of dust, trying to unearth his childhood memories for the first time in years.

It’s not an easy task. He spends days labouring at it – will have to keep labouring at it for the rest of his life – reaching for mental associations he had wilfully buried for years because he had believed thinking about anything except the cause was a weakness. A luxury he can’t afford.

He had been so blind. He wonders if it’s too late.

But, eventually, flickers of memory return, warm and fragile as candlelight.

Helping his mother around the house with chores, the smell of matzah ball soup filling the kitchen. His room and his favourite maroon blanket. Being read to, from storybooks, from the Torah, being patiently encouraged to question and reflect – something Shaw had later beaten out of him. The holidays: food, singing, storytelling – _Why is this night different from all other nights?_ The careful motions of his mother’s work-worn hands as she lights the Shabbat candles, ushering the Sabbath.

(Later, when he returns to his investigation of Marko’s lab, his power comes easier to him than it ever had before.)

***

Days pass. His new awareness of metal doesn’t fade. These days, when he helps Charles shave in the morning, the steel razor is an extension of himself. More than once, heat pools deep in his belly as he draws the keen, honed edge of the blade against Charles’ cheeks and jaw, feeling through the steel the warmth and smoothness of Charles’ skin.

Without his powers, he doubts he would have been able to hold the razor steady.

His metal-sense is not the only thing he’s grown more aware of; with each passing day, helping Charles wash and bathe becomes more and more an exercise of self-control. He’s never felt desire like this before, constant, burning, like one of those eternal flames his father had once told him about, fed by natural gas to blaze steadily for eons.

Charles never invites him into the bath again like he had that first day, but Erik – wants. He wants as much as he fears, and it makes him tender and reverent and then snappish in turn, until it feels like his very skin will split apart.

Sometimes he wishes Charles would push him away – it would make things so much easier – but he only ever looks at him with those understanding blue eyes.

Charles had been down all of yesterday with a migraine, so today is one of his recovery days, as Erik had started to think of them. Charles is always quiet and withdrawn on these days, some unnameable spark in him dimmed. He only moves where Erik directs, a pliant doll – but not a lifeless one. As Erik helps him strip and step into the bath, his hands lingering despite himself, he can’t take his eyes off the flush that creeps slowly over Charles’ skin, vibrant and alive, brought on by the heat of the bathroom.

When Erik washes his hair, Charles’ dark lashes flutter with pleasure and he exhales, low, lips parting just enough to reveal a flash of white teeth. When Erik runs the sponge down his back, Charles is beautifully responsive in his quiet shiver and sigh, the water lapping against his rosy skin. His warm breath joins the gentle halo of steam drifting around the room.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Erik mutters absently. Charles, half-asleep already ( _the trusting idiot_ ), doesn’t respond except to settle deeper against Erik’s touch. His legs sprawl open, loose-limbed and relaxed.

Gently, Erik sponges down Charles’ sides, frowning at the way his ribs are showing. Charles had been losing weight lately, Erik had noticed, and some of the muscle definition he had when they first met had disappeared. “You should eat more,” Erik grumbles.

“Can’t,” Charles mumbles, sounding so sleepy that Erik has to fight back a yawn himself. “Performance coming up.”

“What?”

“…I’ll tell you what, let’s talk about it another time.” Charles shifts, sending water splashing up Erik’s arms, a few stray droplets soaking into his rolled-up sleeves.

“Hold _still,”_ Erik complains, scrubbing more vigorously. He determinedly does _not_ look at the rivulets of water running down between Charles’ shoulderblades.  He does not think about bending down, leaning forwards, chasing those droplets with his tongue.

Charles tilts his head. He looks more awake now, the spark returning to his eyes and his lovely flushed cheeks. “Sorry, am I giving you trouble?” He sounds as demure as ever, but by now Erik knows when Charles’ playful streak is rearing its head.

“As if you could ever be capable of giving me trouble.” Sides done, Erik adjusts his position, moving to crouch by the side of the bathtub so he has easier access to Charles’ front. He keeps his eyes fixed on Charles’ chest – firmly above water level.

Even so, it’s impossible not to be aware that Charles is half-hard in the tub, a natural response to the heat of the water.

Gritting his teeth, Erik keeps his head bowed and gets to work. _Too thin,_ he thinks again, running the sponge along the flat planes of Charles’ stomach. There’s still a touch of boyishness to Charles’ body, a promise of further growth into something sturdy and compact.

Without conscious thought, Erik finds his movements slowing. Charles is watching him, barely breathing, as Erik drags the sponge up the line of his sternum, then across his chest, brushing against the pebbling hardness of his nipples.

Charles makes a hitched little noise, his shoulders drawing up and Erik swallows, hard. “Charles…”

Charles’ hand darts out, closing around his wrist. Erik almost drops the sponge.

“Erik.” He can’t read the look in Charles’ eyes. “Join me. Please.”

His mouth is dry. “It’s not –”

“Appropriate?” Charles tugs him closer. His tongue runs against his lips, a nervous gesture – or an invitation? Erik can’t look away. “I’m not asking for anything more than your company. Erik. Please. I just don’t want to be alone.”

Charles’ hands creep to his top collar, undoing the first button there. “Please, Erik,” he says for the third time. His voice is steady, utterly calm and devoid of artifice. “I need you.”

Swallowing, Erik nods.

***

_He doesn’t want you._

_He’s falling in love with Shaw – so where do you fit in?_

_He’s only using you because you’re always there. Convenient._

_He’s hiding something._

_He doesn’t want you._

***

All right – fine, he can be honest with himself. Xavier – _Charles –_ had gotten to him somehow. Somewhere in between all those nights in the study and all that time spent physically caring for him, Charles had become a person rather than a mission.

When he’s with Charles, Erik feels _seen_. He’s not Shaw’s disgraced former right hand. He’s not a field leader of Hellfire, a symbol of strength and power to be admired – but always from a distance.

Charles sees him for who he is: someone cynical, someone angry and afraid, someone who’s spent so long fighting that he sometimes forgets what it is he’s fighting for. Charles sees all that, and never once had he recoiled. Instead, he speaks of _potential_ and _hope_ , always so self-assured in his serenity that it makes Erik itch _._ Envy, frustration, admiration, desire – his emotions are a thorny tangle these days, and too often he thinks about just grabbing Charles and shaking him, kissing him, taking him apart little by little until that flawless porcelain mask of his falls away.

Because Charles is hiding something; every single one of Erik’s instincts agree. He feels like he has a glimpse of a bigger picture – Marko and Trask’s affiliation, the underground bunker-lab, Charles’ own interest in mutation – but nothing makes sense when he tries to put it all together. Charles _can’t_ be working with the likes of Trask. Not Charles, who loves to read to him for hours each evening, who’s still naïve enough to believe in peace with such sincerity that it almost makes Erik want to believe as well.

Charles, who Shaw will kill as soon as he has his fortune secured.

Charles, who has such an enormous fortune that it can make a huge difference to the cause, if applied correctly.

“Fuck,” Erik growls, slamming down the silver he’s been polishing with such force that it rattles the table, making everything jump. Irritably, he flicks his power out to nudge all the metal objects back to their rightful places, but that only makes things worse, all the metal tumbling to the ground in a cacophony of crashes.

By the time he has everything straightened up, it’s about time to fetch Charles from his daily sessions with Shaw. The door to the room is open just a crack when he arrives; it’s second nature for Erik to stealthily ease himself closer, peering through the crack.

Shaw is standing, his back to the door, leaning down to look at something on the table. As Erik cranes his neck to try get a better angle, Shaw lets out a quiet chuckle, unnervingly low and intimate. Languidly, he prowls over to the other side of the table, and Erik sees–

Charles. The young lord is lying on top of the table, red-cheeked, his eyes tracking Shaw’s every movement. The suit Erik had so carefully buttoned him up in that morning had been undone: the suit jacket and shirt both lay open, baring Charles’ skinny torso. Shaw has one possessive hand resting on top of Charles’ skin, rubbing teasingly against one nipple, and then his hand trails down, down, down…

Erik moves before he thinks about it. The door slams open with a crunch.

Charles and Shaw turn to look at him as one. Shaw’s eyes glint; his lips curl, undeniably smug. Charles only looks surprised, then pleased.

“Erik! You’re early today.” He moves to sit up, but Shaw’s hand, still flat against his belly, keeps him down on the table. Erik clenches his fists.

It starts subtly at first. A discordant hum. A quiet creak. A snap.

Then all the metal tools in the room begin to rattle. The metal cabinets set into the wall _warp_ , cracking, crumbling, and all the shelves and nails inside jump in a clatter, straining towards Erik.

“Erik…?” Charles’ eyes are very wide.

Shit. Erik’s breath stutters. Losing control of his powers in front of a human – it’s his worst nightmare come to life. He darts a glance at Shaw; Shaw only folds his arms, lips thinning.

Shaw isn’t going to cover for him. He’s on his own.

He takes a deep breath. It feels like a death rattle knocking about in his chest. “What?”

“You’re very flushed, my friend.” This time, when Charles sits up, Shaw lets him go. Charles hops off the table in one neat motion and makes his way to Erik, shirt still hanging open. “Are you coming down with a fever?”

“I’m fine,” Erik answers automatically. Charles’ shirt is _still open._ Erik’s fingers twitch, and metal rattles all about them again.

“Really? I think you could do with a bit of a lie-down.” The words are casual enough, but there’s a steely look in Charles’ eye. “Let’s get me decent again and then we’ll be off, shall we?”

“How are you this calm?” Erik grumbles, his heart rate beginning to settle. He starts buttoning Charles’ shirt up again, fingers practically flying up Charles’ front. “Standing around with your shirt half-off…”

“Dr. Schmidt was teaching me anatomy.” Charles sounds entirely too bright, and Erik _hates_ how he turns to look at Shaw, all admiring smiles.

“It was a rewarding session, I hope?” Shaw smirks.

“Of course, very much so.”

All the metal in the room shivers again and Erik growls, grabbing Charles by the wrist. “Let’s get you back to your room. Sir.”

In flagrant breach of protocol, he drags Charles all the way back to his room, blood thundering in his ears. Charles allows himself to be led with his usual unshakeable serenity; it only enrages Erik further. How could he be so _blind_ when Shaw’s trap is closing around his neck like a noose?

“I’ve upset you,” Charles says once they’re alone, the door locked securely behind them.

Erik scowls. He marches Charles over to one of the chairs, then sits down across from him. They need to talk.

“You like him.” He means for it to be a question, but it comes out an accusation instead.

Charles arches an eyebrow. “Dr. Schmidt? I do. Don’t you? You work for him, yes?”

“That doesn’t mean –” He stops himself short, exhaling noisily. That’s the crux of the whole thing, isn’t it? He works for Shaw. He believes in Shaw’s vision, even if they clash over Shaw’s methods.

“Doesn’t mean…?”

“Nothing.” His head is a mess. Anger, _fear,_ part of him is still in a panic over revealing his power to a human. He feels like he’s on the executioner’s block, waiting for the axe to come down. “Aren’t you going to ask?”

Charles’ head tilts; he seems genuinely confused. _Liar._ “Ask what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Erik snaps. “I know you better than that, Charles _,_ you’re not so blind that you didn’t see what happened in that room _._ Go on. Ask.”

“Fine. I thought you didn’t want me to ask, but if you’re insisting now – what was happening there? I don’t think it’s a coincidence that all the metal started rattling around the instant you entered the room.”

This is it.

“I can control metal.” Four simple words, but the instant Erik says them, a strange sense of peace falls over him. No going back now. “We’ve spent so long talking about mutations that you should know what I mean. I’m a mutant.”

He glares at Charles defiantly, ready for anger, rejection – but instead Charles is smiling. His eyes look wet.

The silence drags on for too long. Erik’s grip on the armchair grows white-knuckled. “Nothing to say?” He snaps, impatient and uneasy.

That startles Charles out of his stupor. He blinks rapidly, shaking his head, the smile never leaving his face. “No, no, I’m sorry, you’ve just caught me by surprise, that’s all. Thank you for telling me, my friend. I understand you were somewhat backed into a corner, but I _am_ grateful you trust me enough to tell me the truth.”

Erik’s first reaction is to bristle. Trust? Charles’ naivete is rearing its head again. But Charles is _still_ smiling that damnable smile, looking expectant, and Erik–

–Erik can’t even say he’s wrong. If Charles had been any other human, if Erik had let his power slip in front of some unknown human, this scene would be playing out much differently. There would be a lot more screaming involved, for one.

“You’re not afraid,” he says with just a touch of disbelief.

“I am, a little.” Charles leans forward, touching his hand. His expression is painfully earnest. “You have so much power within you, Erik. A potential no one can match, and you’ll stop at nothing to protect your kind. How can anyone not be afraid?”

Involuntarily, the corners of Erik’s mouth twitch. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to compliment me or not.”

Charles laughs. “It should be obvious.”

“You’re taking this remarkably well.” It leaves Erik feeling wrong-footed.

“I _do_ spend most of my free time studying mutation,” Charles says, with a shrug and a self-deprecating smile. “And I don’t know if it’s slipped your mind, but we have spent quite a few evenings talking about the possibility of mutated humans and how they might fit into our current society. You’re not as subtle as you think you are, my friend.”

“…Have you suspected all along?”

Charles rubs at his temples. “Not exactly. You don’t use your power much, do you?”

“No, I don’t.” It’s easy to fall back into prickly defensiveness again. “I need anger and pain to access it. Not that I’ll have any shortage of those if I start using my power freely around humans.” He glares at Charles, daring him to comment.

“Better safe than sorry,” Charles says, sounding strangely faraway. “Yes. We’ve had that conversation before. But I can’t imagine you would be content with a life of hiding. How did you come to be working with someone like Dr. Schmidt anyway?”

He can’t ask for a more perfect opening to confess everything to Charles.

But.

Despite everything, despite all their disagreements, Shaw is a brother mutant. More than that: Shaw is the one who had saved him all those years ago. Erik _owes_ him. Erik believes in his vision. Giving him up to a human – even if that human is Charles, even if Shaw is planning to use him in the worst possible way – goes against everything Erik stands for.

But he wants so desperately for Charles to understand him. To be safe.

He sighs, raking a frustrated hand through his hair. “When I was young, I was a lab rat. No – just listen to me, all right? I don’t want your pity. Schmidt saved me from that life. He’s almost like a father to me.” God, Charles, _please_ just understand. He can’t betray Shaw. “Everything I am today, it’s all because of him.”

Charles’ expression is inscrutable. “You think he is a good man, then?”

“I don’t _know,_ all right,” Erik snaps, feeling the metal around him tremble, the nails and screws and bolts holding his chair together all shivering in their grooves. He almost wishes the whole thing would come apart and dump him on his ass; that’s how much he doesn’t want to have this conversation.

“All right,” Charles echoes and gets to his feet, infuriatingly self-assured as ever. “This is rather more excitement than I’m used to in one day. Shall we continue our studies?”

Before Erik can respond, Charles is already heading into the study. _Human presumption,_ Erik thinks, without a great deal of heat and with a great deal of exasperated fondness. “How come you’re so interested in mutation anyway?” He calls.

Amusement radiates from Charles’ retreating back, almost a physical presence. “Why don’t you come in and find out?”

 

**4.**

“What was that?” Shaw demands, his mood every bit as foul as the pungent smell of herbal tea filling the room.

Before he can respond, Shaw continues his tirade: “You’re getting _attached._ Fuck’s sakes, even a blind man can see that. What the hell are you thinking? Have you forgotten what we’re trying to do here?”

“No. I haven’t.”

“Are you going to betray me?”

He can’t tell if the bitter taste on his tongue is from the tea or something else. “Have I given you that impression? I apologize.”

“That’s not a real answer.”

He sets down the teacup with enough force to jar it, hot liquid splashing over the rim onto his fingers. He welcomes the burn. “Do stop with the paranoia. There’s nothing he can offer me that compares to what you do.”

***

“By the way, my uncle will be leaving on a business trip next week.”

Erik blinks. He had just been pouring tea for the two of them as they settle in for their nightly studies; the kettle he had been controlling with his power comes to a stop, hovering uncertainly in the air.

Knowledge settles into him, bone-deep. This is it. Shaw will make his move soon. “That’s sudden.”

“Apparently there’s been an emergency of some sort.” Charles’ eyes track the kettle, quietly delighted by every small demonstration of Erik’s power. Erik always half-expects Charles to pounce on him with an endless deluge of questions and demands for more demonstrations, but for some reason, Charles always holds himself back.

Strangely, it sets Erik at ease.

“Any idea what?”

“He doesn’t share much with me when it comes to business matters, I’m afraid.”

“From the sounds of it, he doesn’t share much with you when it comes to anything,” Erik says wryly, and Charles’ mouth twitches.

“That’s very true.”

“You don’t mind?”

Charles shrugs, an elegant motion of his shoulders. “He knows best. I don’t have much of a head for business – nor that much interest in it, if I’m to be honest.”

Scoffing, Erik shakes his head. “Don’t sell yourself short, you’d do brilliantly if you applied yourself.” Charles, beneath his unassuming exterior, is smart and sharp as a blade – even if he does have the most charming blush on his cheeks right now. “I don’t understand why your uncle is wasting your mind on _poetry_.”

Art has its own value, but Charles is so obviously inclined to the sciences that Erik can’t fathom why Kurt Marko would waste Charles’ talent.

Maybe it’s a blessing. He thinks about Charles being indoctrinated into one of those soulless whitecoats experimenting on mutants, and his power sparks dangerously. Erik levitates the kettle back onto portable stove they keep in the study before he can do anything he’ll regret.

Charles looks thoughtful. “He’s not exactly interested in me for my mind, you know.” Outwardly, Charles’ serenity appears undisturbed, but by now Erik can pick up on the way his accent grows more pronounced, his upper-class aristocracy being drawn around him like a shield.

“I heard,” Erik says, very carefully, “that he was planning to marry you.”

“For my money. Yes.”

Erik blinks, his heart clenching, but he tries to keep his tone casual. “You know most people don’t just come out and say it.”

“I never really saw the point in hiding the obvious.” Charles smiles, but he looks distant. “You obviously know already, and so do I.”

“…If he asks you, will you say yes?”

“What alternative is there?”

“There’s –” Shaw. _Me._ “You tell me, Charles. Why haven’t you just kicked him out already? You’re of age, he’s not your legal guardian any more, is he?”

Charles looks – surprised, his brow lifting, tongue darting out to wet his lips, just a touch nervous. “It’s not so simple.”

“The hell it isn’t.” Sensing weakness, Erik prowls over to his usual armchair, settling down so he can stare at Charles with all the dangerous stillness of a predator. “Come on, Charles. You have plenty of power. Leverage. You just need to use it.”

Charles meets his gaze steadily but doesn’t say a word. Erik presses on. “What are you so afraid of?”

Charles doesn’t reply. From experience, Erik knows it’s pointless to try out-wait him; instead, he pushes again. “Have you even been let out of your cage before? Don’t you want to see the world outside?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Charles breathes out, the soft flutter of a bird’s wings. “Yes.” He sounds like he’s confessing a secret.

“Then come with me,” Erik offers impulsively. “Just the two of us, you and I, together. I’ll show you what you’re missing out on.”

Charles darts a glance out of the window. It’s a full moon tonight, silvery light welling through the clouds, spilling long shadows across the grounds. At the boundary of the mansion, the yew tree casts the longest shadow of all.

The moment hangs, suspended in time. Then Charles takes a deep breath and Erik knows he’s lost. “I can’t. I’m sorry, my friend, but I can’t. Not yet. And I think we both know it’s not what you really want either.”

These days, Erik isn’t sure what he wants.

***

Breakfast the next morning is a subdued affair. Charles seems unusually distracted, picking bird-like at his food, darting glances at Erik out of the corners of his eyes as though Erik isn’t trained to notice such things.

“You should just spit it out,” Erik advises after a few minutes.

Charles swallows his food, then wipes daintily at his mouth with his napkin. “I’m sorry?”

“Whatever the thing is that you’re thinking about.” Erik floats his cutlery over to himself, enjoying the way that Charles’ attention immediately snaps to even that miniscule display of his power. “You’ve been acting strange all morning. It’s getting old.”

“Why, thank _you_ for caring,” Charles huffs, but he looks a bit touched.

“My pleasure. So what is it?”

Charles taps the tines of his fork against his lip, tongue darting out to swipe across the silver tips. It’s maddeningly distracting. “Nothing much at all, I just need your help with something. My uncle is inviting some associates over tonight, and he’s asked me to perform for them. Can you come fetch me from Dr. Schmidt’s a little earlier than usual today? I’ll need your help to prepare.”

“Sounds fine.” Perfectly innocuous, even. It doesn’t explain the way Charles had been fretting earlier.

Erik doesn’t get his answers until later that night. He takes vicious satisfaction in barging into Charles and Shaw’s session early (Charles has his shirt on this time, thankfully), but there’s something _off_ about Charles. He’s smiling, but it’s false and brittle.

Once they’re in the bedroom, Charles heads for the secondary closet containing all the costumes – the one Erik hasn’t thought about since he came across it on that first day. Erik watches, increasingly baffled, as Charles emerges with a dark bundle of fabric in his arms, which he sets down on the bed.

“Is that a _corset?”_

“Yes,” comes the unconcerned reply. Charles lays the clothing out on the bed, and Erik frowns at the way he fumbles around when usually his hands are smooth and controlled. “It’s rather impossible to put it on properly on my own – it’s a terrible design, yes – which is why I had to enlist your help. Of course, if you don’t know what to d–”

Erik cuts through Charles’ nervous torrent of words: “Charles. Why do you need to wear a corset?”

Charles’ mouth twists, that unreadable look shuttering his eyes again. “It’s part of the performance,” he says mildly. “Authenticity. You know.”

“No, I don’t know,” Erik says flatly. _Nobles._ He’d tease Charles about getting into such a garment, but he can’t shake the sense that something is wrong. “You’re hiding something, don’t lie to me.”

“Erik–” Charles sighs. “Let’s not argue, shall we, I’m on a rather tight schedule. If you don’t want to do it I’m sure I can find someone else.”

An image of Charles going to Shaw flashes through Erik’s mind. He tenses, and Charles seems to read his silence as acquiescence. “Help me undress, please?”

“Don’t think this is over,” Erik warns as he motions for Charles to turn around so he can start unbuttoning his jacket. The necktie goes next, baring the creamy skin of Charles’ throat. Harshly, Erik reminds himself not to stare – he’s been doing that too often lately.

Soon, Charles stands placidly in nothing but his thin undergarments. His chest and back are exposed; as always, Erik’s eyes are drawn unwillingly to the thin silver stripes scarring Charles’ back, and his anger seethes inside him like an old friend. Kurt Marko does not deserve Charles’ obedience. The need to grab Charles and _get out_ burns under Erik’s skin.

Instead, he picks up the corset. It’s a sturdy thing, backed with whalebone and ribs of steel, designed to be worn under clothing. Erik turns it over in his hands, his frown deepening.

“Just put it on and lace it tight,” Charles murmurs.

This shouldn’t be any different from all those times he had dressed and undressed Charles, something he’s done practically every single day these past few months. Still, Erik hesitates once he has the corset fitted snugly around Charles’ torso, the laces still hanging undone. “How tight?”

“Tight. Just give it a try and we’ll go from there.”

Erik does, but Charles shakes his head almost immediately. “Tighter.”

“It’s going to hurt,” Erik warns. Which is rather the point of a corset, he supposes.

“It’s very sweet of you to worry, my friend, but you don’t need to.” Charles turns his head just enough that Erik can catch the edge of a crooked smile. “Go on now.”

Fine. He pulls – “ _Tighter,_ Erik,” Charles demands – he yanks and he tugs until Charles has to brace himself against the bed so he doesn’t fall over, but even then Charles is still gasping, breathless, “ _Harder,_ put your back into it, Erik please –”

Does Charles even know what he sounds like right now? What he looks like? He’s white-faced and swaying, lips pressed tightly together, his back arched.

Erik grits his teeth, giving one final tug. “No more,” he says firmly. “I won’t hurt you.” _Liar,_ his conscience snarls.

Obviously hesitant, Charles bites his lip, but after a moment, he nods. “All right.”

Letting go of his death-grip on the edge of the bed, Charles straightens up, and immediately Erik can see the enormous difference made by the corset: Charles’ waist tapers in sleek lines, accentuating his shoulders and chest, and the steel-and-whalebone ribs of the corset forces him into an austere, straight-backed posture.

Unsure of what to think, Erik helps him into the rest of the outfit. First comes a dark, close-fitting top, the bottom curving into loose folds of fabric that smooth out the masculine angles of Charles’ hips. Then come plain breeches and a pair of fine boots, low-heeled, subtly patterned with the curling vines favoured by female nobility.

The overall effect is an ambiguous mix of visual cues, an effect that is only enhanced when Charles disappears into the bathroom and re-emerges with his lashes darkened by kohl to bring out the blue of his eyes. His lips – always red, too invitingly red – have been painted to accentuate their shape, and something about his face is different; it’s not until Erik looks more closely that he realizes Charles had skilfully reshaped the contours of his cheek and jaw with some powder, rounding out the corners and slimming his face into something more youthful. Androgynous.

“What do you think?” Erik can’t look away from the red bow of Charles’ mouth as he speaks. He can _feel_ the steel ribs of the corset, hot against Charles’ skin, constricting, strangling.

“It’s…” _Good. You look good._ But the remote look in Charles’ eyes makes him pause. “You know you look good.” He reaches out, brushing back the artfully dishevelled curls tumbling across Charles’ brow. “But I’d rather see the real you instead of whatever it is your uncle is trying to force you into being. I know you don’t enjoy this.”

Charles’ expression softens into a real smile. “I should go,” he says gently. “Take the rest of the night off, Erik. I won’t be back until late.”

“Need me to walk you there?”

“I’ll be fine.” Charles steps to the door, the painful tightness of the corset transforming his usual confident gait into something slower and more stately. “Good night, Erik.”

The next few hours seem to crawl by. Erik sequesters himself into the study, but his focus is hopelessly scattered. All he can think about is Marko. Marko must know that late nights aren’t good for Charles, not to mention the physical strain of corseting, or – had Marko been _starving_ Charles all this time, just for the performance?

How dare he. How could Charles–

The metal in the study rattles. Erik growls, forcing himself to calm. He needs to talk with Charles. Tonight won’t be a good time; Charles will likely be returning from his performance with the beginnings of a migraine, and the last thing Erik needs is to put him out of commission for a few days by piling more stress on top of everything else.

Not to mention, Marko will be leaving soon. Which means Shaw’s plans will be moving ahead.

Fuck.

Can he really do it? Save Charles? Betray Shaw, betray the cause?

When did the cause change so much that it now depends on tricking someone innocent and _murdering_ them once their usefulness runs out?

“Fuck!” Erik surges to his feet, pacing. It’s useless, it’s all so useless – his frenetic steps don’t resolve even the smallest bit of the chaos swirling in his head, and Erik yearns fiercely for the clarity and serenity that Charles’ mere presence grants him.

He’ll draw Charles a bath, Erik decides. Anything to help stave off the migraine lurking around the corner.

Another hour drags past. Erik channels his restless energy into keeping the bath hot with his power. He prepares tea as well, fetches some food from the kitchens, prepares even more tea…

At last, Charles returns, a pale shadow slipping silently into the room. He blinks when he sees Erik. “Still awake, my friend? Is everything all right?”

Suddenly, Erik feels his preparations might have been just a bit excessive. “You look awful,” he says gruffly. “Come on, I drew a bath for you.”

Charles smiles wanly. “I don’t deserve you,” he says, all fond affection. “Thank you, Erik, truly.”

“It’s nothing.” He places a hand on Charles’ elbow, steering him to the bathroom. Charles allows himself to be led docilely, and Erik feels a frisson of unease – it’s like they’re all the way back at the beginning again, Charles nothing but a pliant doll bending silently to Erik’s control.

Grimly, he strips the outfit off Charles, taking special pleasure in wrenching the corset off. “How are you feeling? And don’t tell me you’re fine, I know you’re not.”

That gets a small laugh out of Charles as he slips into the hot water. “Don’t fuss, I’m only tired. Join me?”

Erik hadn’t realized he’d feel so relieved just from seeing a small spark of Charles’ usual spirit. He wants to cup it in his hands, to fan it with his breath and see that it never goes out.

“All right.”

***

The next morning, he knows before he even opens the door to Charles’ bedroom that something is wrong. Sure enough, the room is dark when he steps in, the curtains tightly drawn, and Charles an unmoving shadow on the bed.

Before Erik can say a word, Charles is already speaking:

“I’m sorry, Erik, but… Could you please fetch Dr. Schmidt?”

 

**5.**

Shaw must be in a good mood today to be so indulgent in his choice of tea; he breathes in the fragrant scent of bergamot and stares fixedly into the distance.

“Soon,” Shaw remarks. “With Marko out of the way, we’ll have a clear shot at carrying out our plan, and then you’ll be free of this whole tiresome thing. Looking forward to your freedom?”

“Of course.”

Shaw prowls to stand beside him, circling like a predator. He holds himself carefully still as Shaw sets a hand on his shoulder. “Really? No second thoughts?”

He smiles thinly. “Whatever for?”

***

It’s been hours. It’s been six fucking hours and Shaw is _still_ in Charles’ room. Erik can’t take it anymore. He raps sharply on the door. “Everything fine in there?”

There’s no response – not in words, at least, but Erik hears plenty. A muffled noise of surprise. The creak of the bed. A rapid rustling, maybe someone’s clothes, maybe the bedsheets and the blankets.

It doesn’t matter. He’s heard enough. Erik throws the door wide open, his power latching furiously onto the metal knobs and bolts.

He had expected it, but the scene in front of him still knocks the breath from his lungs: Shaw and Charles, in bed together, Shaw looming over Charles, bracketing Charles’ smaller body with his own, a predator crouched vicious and triumphant on top of its prey. They’re both clothed, but Charles is still in his nightgown, the collar askew. He’s flushed and rumpled, staring rapt at Shaw with those red lips of his parted expectantly. Erik can’t help it; his gaze drops lower, to Shaw’s groin and the tell-tale bulge there, rubbing against Charles’ thigh.

Erik sees red. “ _Get off him,”_ he’s shouting, the next moment blurring past in a flurry of grasping hands and thrashing bodies. Somehow, he hauls Shaw up and tosses him bodily into the hallway outside, slamming the door shut behind them.

The moment they’re hidden from Charles’ sight, Shaw slams him against the wall. His mutant strength pulses hot, and Erik wheezes in agony as Shaw shakes him like a disobedient dog, knocking his skull into the unforgiving wall again and again.

“Get off me, _fuck, get off me–”_ His power scrabbles frantically at the metal on Shaw’s cufflinks, his belt; Shaw doesn’t blink an eye. He smiles, poisonously calm.

“Little Erik,” he croons, and Erik shudders at the way he reverts to German, a reminder of their shared past. “Breaking your promise already? Going soft for the first pretty human to look your way, I’m disappointed in you.”

Erik bares his teeth, replying in English. “You know I’m dedicated to the cause. If anything, I–”

Shaw continues as if Erik hadn’t spoken a word: “If you wanted him after I’m done with him, you only had to ask. A reward, shall we say? You’ve always been so faithful to the cause.”

Snarling, Erik shoves at Shaw’s chest. To his surprise, Shaw lets him go, and he drops heavily to the ground, only just managing to land on his feet.

“I know my own dedication,” Erik seethes. “It’s yours I’m questioning. Wasting months here, playing house with Charles, you–”

“Oh, Erik.” Shaw tuts, still in German, and he sounds so much like the man he had been when he first rescued Erik. He had been Erik’s mentor then, a paternal figure looming large and powerful in his life, a steady bedrock for a traumatised boy. Shaw claps Erik on the shoulder the same way he had when Erik was young, every time Erik had done something particularly impressive with his powers. “We’ve been through this already, haven’t we?”

Erik forcibly shoves away his memories. “I didn’t buy it then and I don’t buy it now. I’m only here for Marko.”

“Good! So it shouldn’t bother you what I do with young Lord Xavier.” Erik opens his mouth, but Shaw talks right over him. “Just a few more days, Erik. You can hold on for that long. And, like I said, if you want him after I’m done, you only have to ask.”

Shaw leans in, conspiratorial. “There’s nothing wrong with needing a bit of entertainment. Just don’t let him distract you from the cause any more than he already has, hmm?”

“Get out.”

Shaw smiles thinly. “I’ll be in touch,” he says, in English this time. Erik tracks him with his eyes and his metal-sense until he’s sure Shaw is gone. Only then does he return to Charles’ room.

Charles is sitting quietly at the reading table by the window. There’s a book in his hands, but he’s staring out at the grounds instead, pale-faced. Without waiting for an invitation, Erik slides into the seat next to him. “Hey,” he says softly. “How are you feeling? Is your migraine still…” Erik taps the side of his head.

Charles blinks, then smiles apologetically. “I’m sorry, I was miles away – welcome back, Erik, and I’m feeling much better, thank you. Yourself?”

“Fine. Been better. But fine.”

He can feel Charles hesitate, but eventually Charles says: “You were quite…upset, earlier.”

“I was,” Erik allows, still not sure how much he wants to reveal, but he’s feeling reckless – Charles already knows so much about him, what’s a little bit more? Damn Shaw for putting him into this position. Charles isn’t a toy to be passed around.

“Was it about Dr. Schmidt?”

Erik nods stiffly.

Charles turns the full force of his blue eyes on Erik. “You don’t approve? He’s clever, well-educated, with a respectable occupation…”

“He’s your _doctor._ ” Erik snaps. “He’s taking advantage.”

Charles’ tongue swipes against his bottom lip as he thinks.  “You’ve worked with him for a long time, haven’t you? Has he done this with his other patients before?”

“…No. Just you.”

“Is it really such a stretch to think he might be genuinely interested in me?”

Oh, Shaw is interested in Charles all right, just for all the wrong reasons. “You don’t know anything about him,” Erik growls. “It’s…complicated, all right? Don’t be so quick to trust him. He’s a complicated man.”

“And so are you,” Charles murmurs.

Anger flares. “I’m nothing like him.”

“I think the two of you are more alike than you’d care to admit, _my friend._ ” Charles’ eyes are very cool. Before Erik can think of a reply, Charles pushes himself to his feet and stalks into the study.

For the first time that Erik can remember, Charles shuts the door behind him.

***

Banished from the study, Erik finds himself at loose ends as the day ticks towards the evening. He takes dinner with the other servants, and after a bit of scowling and snapping, he bullies the cooks into making a hearty meal for Charles. _Should have done it a long time ago,_ he thinks grimly as he brings the tray to Charles’ bedroom, letting himself in.

The door to the study is open again, and Charles appears at the doorway the instant Erik enters the room. “Erik, I–”

“Come here.” Erik sets down the tray on the reading table. “Sit down and eat.”

Charles blinks at the spread of food in front of him. “Did my uncle approve of this?”

“Forget your uncle. Eat.”

Charles hesitates for a moment, then smiles. It’s not quite a happy expression; if Erik had to describe it, he’d say Charles looks resolved.

Well, good. Anything that gets Charles out from under Kurt Marko’s thumb is progress. Erik grins fiercely as he watches Charles sit and tuck in with vigour, eyes closing with obvious enjoyment. “This is excellent, Erik. Would you like some?”

“I had dinner already.”

“Mm. Try some anyway.”

They eat together quietly. Erik is burning with questions about Charles’ earlier odd mood, but something about Charles discourages him from asking, and Erik is reluctant to disturb the reflective peace that had fallen over the two of them. He can’t shake the feeling that they won’t get many more moments like this. So he eats and drinks, watching the silver flash of cutlery between Charles’ fingers, knowing Charles is watching him in return.

After dinner they move into the study. Charles reads for them as he always does, Erik absorbing his words easy as breathing, surrounded by the rich cadence of Charles’ voice.

But there’s something different about Charles. Normally, he interrupts his own reading with little bursts of animation, calling Erik’s attention to interesting bits of scientific theory as he goes, asking his opinion on this and that. None of that happens tonight. Charles only reads, reads like he’s trying to lose himself in the words.

The first time Charles loses track of where he’s up to, Erik raises an eyebrow. That’s new.

The second time it happens, Erik leaves his seat and strides over to Charles, easily snagging the book from Charles and ignoring his startled noise of protest. “You’re miles away tonight. What’s on your mind?”

Charles makes a half-hearted (and very futile) swipe for his book. Erik holds it out of his reach, mouth quirking into a small grin.

“God’s sake,” Charles huffs, but he’s smiling as well, just a little.

Erik casually flicks open the book, making a show of paging through it idly. “Well?”

Not for the first time that night, Charles’ gaze returns to the window, the levity fading from him. He’s silent, but Erik’s intuition tells him not to push. He’s rewarded a few moments later when Charles says, in that quiet, honest way of his: “I’m afraid. I’m very tired, my friend, and I’m afraid.”

Only Charles would expose his soft underbelly like this and trust Erik not to take advantage. The golden lamplight falls on the pale curve of his neck, bare and vulnerable.

“What are you afraid of?” Erik asks softly. “Tell me. We’ll fight it together.”

Charles stands in one fluid movement. He takes the book from Erik, shelving it back into its rightful place and leaves it behind with a lingering touch, his fingers stroking down its spine in a strangely tender gesture.

It feels like a goodbye.

“Let’s go to bed.” Charles brushes past him, heading back to the bedroom.

“We’re not d–”

Charles glances back at him. “Erik. I’ll tell you everything. I promise.”

Somehow, Erik believes him. He follows Charles into the bedroom, assisting him through his nightly routine. The monotony relaxes his mind. It’s easy to immerse himself in the moment, especially when it comes to stripping Charles out of all his tailored clothes, smoothing his hands along Charles’ arms and torso and legs as he helps him into his simple nightwear. Charles looks younger without the shield of all his formal wear, standing lonely and bare-footed in a room much too big for one person.

Duty done, Erik turns to leave, but a hand on his elbow stops him. He raises an eyebrow at Charles. It’s not often that Charles touches him. “Need something?”

“I did say to let’s go to bed.” Charles licks his lips, the way he does when he’s either nervous or focusing intently on something, but his gaze remains steady.

Erik frowns, turning those words over in his head. He can’t mean… “What, together?”

In lieu of a proper response, Charles steps closer. Erik goes rigid as Charles’ fingers trail along his arm. “May I?” Charles asks softly, and Erik has no answer for him.

Charles’ fingers go to the starched white collar of his servant’s shirt. Erik swallows, throat bobbing, as Charles undoes the first button, a small frown of concentration on his face. He should stop this. Things are complicated enough without…whatever _this_ is.

He doesn’t move.

Charles bends, his slim form pale and graceful as the neck of a crane. Erik’s shirt falls away. He’s still in his undershirt, but Erik feels wholly naked, especially when Charles drops to one knee and hooks his thumbs against the waistband of Erik’s trousers.

Their eyes meet, Charles’ a flash of blue under his dark lashes, and his red mouth curves into a smile. Heat jolts up Erik’s spine.

“You–” Without thinking about it, his hand tangles into Charles’ curls. “What are you up to, Charles?”

Charles has the nerve to blink innocently. “Helping you get ready for bed, of course. The exact same thing as what you do for me every night, or have you forgotten already?”

“Not like this.”

“Like what?”

Erik groans, his grip tightening momentarily. He shouldn’t be doing this. He doesn’t even know why Charles is doing this. Charles wants _Shaw_ , not him. Erik doesn’t fit into Charles’ neat existence.

He shouldn’t be doing this, but he’s weak, so weak, when it comes to Charles. _Fuck it._ One night of selfishness, is that really so bad? “You know what? Suit yourself.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” With a final grin, Charles tugs down Erik’s trousers, slow and smooth. He stands again once he’s done, taking Erik by the hand and leading him to the bed, leaving Erik’s clothes in a messy heap on the floor.

“Charles. You’re sure about this?”

Charles settles himself into the bed, tugging Erik down with him. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“All right.” Erik turns to blow out the gas lamp, darkness settling over the room like a velvet shroud. The moon is high and bright in the sky, and in the silver shadows of the room, Erik remembers the night he had first met Charles. The room had looked much like this, then. Charles had looked the same too, pale and haunted from his nightmare.

But back then, Erik hadn’t felt this need to comfort him. Strange how quickly things can change. Gently, Erik pulls the blanket over the two of them – how long has it been since he’s shared someone else’s bed? – and for a moment he feels clumsy and awkward, his body taking up too much space.

Ridiculous. Charles had invited him here. Indeed, Charles is nestling closer, almost touching but not quite. He could wrap his arms around Charles if he wanted to. They lie there, face-to-face, quietly studying each other.

“Earlier,” Erik says, reluctant to disturb the peace, but he has to _know_ , “you said you were afraid. Of what?”

Charles’ calm flickers. “I’ve told you my uncle is leaving on a business trip.”

It feels like a stone had dropped into Erik’s stomach. “What about it?”

“He’ll be away for a few days. It’s rare that he leaves the house like this – leaves me unsupervised, that is.” The blanket shifts around them, Charles restlessly plucking at the fabric. “Dr. Schmidt thought it would be a good opportunity.”

 _To do what?_ Erik wants to ask, but he’s never been one to play dumb. “He proposed,” he says flatly.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to accept?” _Do you love him?_

“I don’t know.” Charles bites his lip. “Likely yes.”

 _No._ Erik’s hands dart out, gripping Charles’ shoulders. “Charles–”

“I know you don’t want me to. I won’t ask why, I know there are some things you can’t explain to me.” Charles shifts closer. If he angles his head just a bit and leans forward, then… “I just want you to know that I trust you, Erik. I trust you more than I trust him.”

“And you’re still marrying him.”

Charles’ smile is wistful. “You have your secrets, I have mine.”

“Is this what this is? Payback?”

“No, my friend, no.” Charles’ eyes are very wide, just a hint of blue visible in the dark. “No, of course not. It’s only…”

He closes the last little bit of distance between them. Charles’ lips are so soft, wonderfully soft, plush and giving against Erik’s. He must be nervous – Erik’s own heart is thundering wild and fast – but Charles never hesitates. He pulls back for just a second, long enough to give Erik a fleeting smile, then he’s kissing Erik again, cupping his cheek and making a quiet little noise as he parts his lips.

And Erik – he’s never claimed to be virtuous. How many times has he thought about Charles’ mouth? Dreamt of it? The second his surprise fades, Erik kisses him back with the same controlled ferocity that characterises his entire life. For the second time that night, his fingers tangle into Charles’ dark curls, cradling the back of his skull and holding him close. Charles must be new to this, he knows, so Erik takes the initiative, deepening the kiss and licking into the wet heat of Charles’ mouth. Charles jumps under his hands, letting out a startled noise as their tongues slide against each other, and Erik grins, savagely pleased. He’s the first person to show Charles this. This belongs to him, to _them,_ no one else.

Charles is the first to pull back. The darkness hides far too many details, but Erik sees enough to send possessive fire streaking through him: Charles, bright-eyed and tousled, already breathing hard. “Erik,” he says urgently, almost a moan.

There’s only one thing Erik can do in response to that. He kisses Charles again, and again, and again, pulling him close and slotting their bodies together. Nobody has ever made him feel like this before. _Mine,_ his thoughts rumble. _Shaw can’t have him. He’s mine. Mine to protect._ Rolling the two of them over, he pins Charles to the bed as they sink deeper into heady, senseless bliss, pleasure jolting through him as Charles’ tongue thrusts against his and their bodies move together, slow at first, then with increasing confidence.

Eventually Charles has to pull back for breath, and Erik takes great satisfaction in the way he gasps and squirms, pupils blown wide: “I didn’t kno– I haven’t ever–”

“Shh.” Erik kisses him again, fond but heated. He can barely remember his earlier misgivings. “Come on, take this off, I want to see you.” He rucks up Charles’ nightshirt; Charles all but yanks it over his head. Then his hands slide under Erik’s undershirt, rubbing, and Erik groans lowly.

“Good, isn’t it?” There’s a gleam in Charles’ eyes as he leans forward for another peck on the lips, their noses bumping together.

“I’ll make you feel even better,” Erik promises. He pulls off his undershirt impatiently, and then they’re kissing again, only it’s even better this time as their bare chests press together. Erik can’t take his hands off Charles, who keeps making indecent little noises – after spending every day wrapped up in all those stifling layers of his, locked away in his lonely cage, he must be absolutely overwhelmed by all this contact.

No more. He’ll rip down all the walls that imprison Charles. He’ll set him free.

Charles kisses him with sudden ferocity, hands wrapping around Erik’s shoulders and all but dragging him down. “Yes,” he pants. “ _Yes_ , Erik.”

“Come here,” he says throatily, sliding a hand between them to palm at Charles’ groin. Charles gasps, jerking, and Erik squeezes. The thin cloth of Charles’ nightwear hides nothing: he’s incredibly hot and hard under Erik’s hand, and there’s a damp spot on the fabric, Charles leaking precome already.

“ _Erik,”_ Charles’ breath hitches. “Touch me properly.”

Erik grins at that hint of demand, grins at the way Charles’ true self shines through his reserve. “Whatever you want, _sir.”_

“Don’t teas– _nngh!”_ Charles arches with a cry as Erik slides a hand down his pants, taking hold of his cock properly. Oh fuck, why didn’t he do this earlier? Its weight feels perfect in his hands, blood-hot, the foreskin smooth. He pulls languidly, from base to tip, unable to take his eyes off the needy twist of Charles’ expression.

Not that Charles lies back and takes it quietly for long. “Let me, ah, let me touch you too.” And then it’s Erik’s turn to groan as Charles’ clever fingers close around his cock, stroking down the thick shaft. Growling, he pulls Charles’ pants off completely (Charles helpfully wiggling and kicking), but before he can kiss and suck his way down Charles’ torso the way he wants to, Charles’ hands are on him.

Ever the quick learner, Charles divests Erik of the last of his undergarments in short order, leaving the two of them completely bared to each other. Charles’ eyes rake up and down his body with obvious desire; Erik is sure the look on his own face is no less hungry.

Again they kiss, although Erik can’t be sure who initiates this time. For a few moments they merely rub against each other, Erik loving the feel of Charles’ smaller body under his own, Charles’ thighs and cock pressing against his without the barrier of cloth in the way. “You feel amazing, you know that? You’re–”

“Touch me,” Charles demands, half a plea. Erik is only too happy to oblige. Slicking his hand with spit, he presses their cocks together and _strokes,_ Charles moaning as he thrusts against Erik’s cock and hand. Surprise flickers through Erik as Charles brings his hand down as well, clasping his.

But it feels right. Together, their fingers interlaced, they kiss and thrust messily against each other, the velvet darkness of the room filling with their quiet mingled panting and the slick noises of their pleasure. Erik shows Charles how best to twist his hand, how to squeeze and pull.

Charles comes first, with a soft and startled cry, spilling messily over their joined hands. The sight of Charles’ body clenching up, then the tension leaving him in a rush, his face open and vulnerable – it drives Erik straight to the edge. The jerk of their hands reaches a frenzied pace and suddenly he’s coming too, the room reverberating with the force of his ragged cry. It’s a release in more ways than one, as he finally gives voice to all the suppressed conflict and fury and overwhelming _need_ that had plagued him these last few months.

He can’t do anything but lie there afterwards. Charles shifts so that they rest side by side, holding Erik close as he trails sleepy kisses against his cheek and jaw, to the corner of his lips.

“I should clean us up,” Erik says half-heartedly.

“No. Stay.” For someone who had just come, Charles sounds remarkably firm. “I want you with me.”

Those words could almost be an aphrodisiac all by themselves. To be seen, to be wanted, to be accepted unequivocally – Charles has a way of striking right to the heart of Erik’s desires.

It’s too good to be true, and the thought sends reality slowly creeping back. Erik withdraws, physically putting a bit of space between them, mentally trying to detangle himself from the haze of affection he feels. “Charles. You know this can’t last.”

“We’ll find a way.” Charles looks at him, so solemn and so confident that Erik aches. “I’m serious, Erik. Whatever may come, I want you by my side.”

“You don’t know me. Not really.”

“I do.” Charles closes the gap between them again, pressing their foreheads together. “There’s so much anger and darkness within you, my friend, but that’s not all you are. You’re, you’re so passionate and _brilliant,_ Erik. You care so deeply. There’s so much light in you.”

“No,” Erik says harshly. He can’t do this anymore. He can’t. “You’re wrong. You don’t know the truth.”

“Then tell me.”

Erik takes a deep breath, the world clicking into place as he makes his decision.

 

**6.**

There is no tea today. Instead, Shaw pours them wine, rich and red, some expensive vintage that must have been stolen from the cellars.

“I thought we should celebrate a job well done,” Shaw drawls, raising his glass. “To your freedom.”

“Freedom,” he echoes.

“Marko is leaving tomorrow. Everything is in place. You’ll be out of here before you know it.” A speculative look enters Shaw’s eye. “Are you ready to end it all?”

“Yes,” answers Charles.

 


	2. part ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional tags have been updated. Please mind the new warnings!

**1.**

The mansion in Westchester is _huge._ Father had told him that he had lived there when he was a baby, but Charles had been too young to remember any of it. Now, peering out of the automobile as they roll up the driveway, craning his head back and back and back to see the full height of the mansion, Charles doesn’t know how he could have forgotten it.

His rooms are huge too, nothing like the dormitory he had shared with five other boys back in the boarding school in Britain. Everyone is so _nice_ to him when they help him get settled in. Charles knows they feel sorry for him. _Poor thing,_ they repeat, over and over again. _Losing his father so young, and now his mother too! He’s only six, isn’t he? A shame, a shame… Poor thing, he’s holding up so well, what a dear!_

Charles feels awful. He knows he should be crying because Mother had just died and now both of his parents are gone, but no matter how hard he tries, the tears just won’t come. He doesn’t so much as sniffle. The staff think it’s because he’s a brave lad.

The truth is, he just hadn’t known Mother at all. He misses his friends and instructors at boarding school more than he misses her, and isn’t that just an absolutely wretched way to feel? He’s an awful son.

The wretched feeling stays for the next few days. Everyone is nice to him, but nobody knows what to do with him. He doesn’t have a nanny or a governess or a tutor and he’s _bored._

“Do you know when I’ll be meeting my uncle?”

The servant bringing him breakfast looks uncomfortable. “No, sir. But Mr. Marko is a busy man, I expect he’ll call for you when he’s ready.”

The call doesn’t come until another few days later, and by then Charles had absolutely _had enough_ and had snuck out to explore the grounds. He’s messy and mud-splattered when the servants find him and march him to Uncle’s study, and Charles gulps. He’s in big trouble.

It’s the first time he’s met Uncle even though Uncle is his “legal guardian” now (whatever that means), and despite the nervous butterflies tumbling around in his stomach Charles can’t resist a curious peek at his uncle. He’s a tall, broad man with dark hair and a coarse beard to match, dressed very respectably. He seems angry, but also…satisfied? Charles fidgets before he remembers his manners and gives a proper apology.

Surprisingly, Uncle doesn’t give him a thrashing, verbal or otherwise. He only looks stern. “We’ll have to find some way to keep you occupied so you don’t get into more trouble,”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“Call me ‘sir’.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

_It’s just not right for that Marko to take control of the estate – he’s not even a proper noble, is he?_

_And what is he thinking, dragging poor Young Master Charles all the way back from England? No, it’s not right at all._

_Shh, back to work, don’t let him hear you. Haven’t you heard what he did to that kitchen boy?_

***

Two days later, Charles decides Uncle is a big _liar._ He promised to give something for Charles to do, but there’s nothing, just Charles idly lying on top of the rug and counting – for the fifth time – how many threads are woven into the faded golden tassels. He gets all the way up to three hundred and a bit this time and he’s proud of his focus.

Grumpily, he pulls himself up to his feet. His nails are chipped from picking at the walls and floorboards, and his eyes feel dry and itchy. He couldn’t stop himself from crying earlier, hating how it feels like he’s been put into time-out _forever_ for no reason. He misses school. He misses having things to do.

Charles scrubs at his eyes. He knows he shouldn’t, but there’s nobody here to stop him, so there _._

And if there’s nobody to stop him…

There’s a huge tree right on the edge of the estate, with the widest, thickest trunk Charles had ever seen. He sneaks there now, entertaining himself by trying to scramble up the rough bark and the thick and gnarling branches. If he climbs up high enough, could he see all the way back to Britain?

It’s almost sunset by the time anyone comes. Charles gives his best smile to the harried maid that had come to collect him, and some of the annoyance radiating off her fades.

“Oh, look at you,” she fusses at the dirt and bark gathered under his nails and the soil smudged all over him. “Come along, Mr. Marko wants to see you right away.”

“Is he mad?”

The maid looks at him as if to say _When is he not mad?_ “I’m sure it’ll be fine, Young Master. Come on, now! Oh, it’s a shame I don’t have time to get you cleaned up some…”

Uncle is waiting for him in his room. After the maid leaves, Uncle has him strip off his shoes and socks, his pants and underwear. Charles bites his lip as Uncle bends him over the bed, a slender switch in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. He’s always been a good boy, not the sort to get the switch despite the occasional bit of schoolyard mischief.

The switch comes down with a loud crack.

For a moment, there’s nothing – then Charles wails as heat and pain flare to life against his bare buttocks. Uncle doesn’t say a word, just brings the switch down again and again, until Charles is cringing and sobbing and scrambling onto the bed, trying to escape.

Uncle follows him. This time the switch lands across his bare feet, and when Charles kicks, Uncle only pins him down.

It goes on and on until Charles can only lie there and cry. His face is hot with pain and humiliation. When Uncle finally lets him go, he curls up into a tight ball, head swimming. He wants to go home. He wants to be in class again, wants to be with the other boys even though they’re all older than he is since Mother had him shipped off to boarding school early. He wants to go _home._

“Stop that,” Uncle says severely, and Charles flinches. Shaking, he rubs at his face, telling himself to be brave. He sits up, but it hurts so much that he just crumples down to lie on his side again, his eyes still hot and sticky.

“Better,” Uncle says. He sets the switch on the bedside table where Charles can see. “I’m making arrangements for you to have a private tutor. My late sister – your mother – had said you’re a bright boy, so I only want the best for you. In the meantime your aunt has kindly volunteered to help you keep up with your reading. Now, what do you say?”

“Thank you, sir,” Charles whispers, making sure his enunciation is perfect despite the way his voice wobbles.

Uncle nods. “We’ll begin tomorrow.”

***

He hurts all over the next morning. There are raised red marks on his foot, and he’s sure his buttocks look just as bad. The maid clucks as she helps him dress. “No more sneaking off from now on, Young Master, or you’ll get it even worse next time.”

“Okay.”

Every step _hurts_ as the maid brings him to the other side of the mansion. They don’t go to Uncle’s study or Aunt’s rooms; instead, the maid takes him to a performance hall of some sort. There is a circular stage in the middle of the room that is slightly raised off the floor, and surrounding it is a ring of benches. The place is small and intimate.

Uncle is on one of the benches, and Aunt is waiting for him on the dais. It’s the first time Charles had ever seen her. She’s a small woman, pale and fashionable, seated gracefully on a cushion on the floor. In front of her is a reading lectern placed low, close to the ground.

“Go sit by your aunt, Charles.”

Charles obeys. It’s a relief to get off his feet. His aunt doesn’t give him so much as a glance as he settles down next to her, and he shrinks away slightly, thinking of Mother.

“Eyes on the book.”

There’s a book on the lectern. It’s a _picture book_ , the sort they use to teach kids their basic words. It’s opened to show a picture of a man and a woman, with the corresponding words written next to the picture in beautiful calligraphy.

“Excuse me, sir,” Charles says politely, “but I know these words already.”

“Read them.”

“Man. Woman.” His aunt turns to the next page, and Charles frowns when he sees the words are incredibly simple again, the sort he learnt _years_ ago. “Hair, eye, ear, nose, mouth.”

“No,” Uncle’s voice cracks down like the switch. “Slower, boy. Listen to how your aunt does it.”

Aunt flicks back to the first page, never once glancing at Charles. “Man. Woman.” It’s the first time Charles had ever heard her speak. Her accent is much more like Charles’ British accent than Uncle’s American one, and even though she’s only saying two simple words, she reads them like they’re art, her enunciation perfect, a precise and deliberate pause in between the words. Even the expression on her face changes, growing warmer and more alive.

Charles likes it. It feels like a performance. He sits up straighter (wincing a little), watching her as she recites the next words, so different from his own rushed and bored reading: “Hair. Eye. Ear. Nose. Mouth.” Her voice dips up and down, melodious.

“Try again,” Uncle tells him. Charles copies his aunt as well as he can, and even though he knows he sounds boyish and unpractised next to her, it’s enough for Uncle to nod. Charles beams.

They move on. Charles ends up learning a few new words, _nape, scapula, sternum…_

“Ab…ab-do-men.”

“Again. Smoothly, like a ribbon.”

 _“Abdomen,”_ Charles repeats obediently, trying to make the syllables glide and flow.

“Hip.” A press of his lips together at the ‘p’.

“Pelvis.” He likes the little hiss at the end.

“Groin.” Low, throaty.

“Loin.”

And then –

“P-penis,” he stutters, face bright red. He knows it’s not the sort of word you’re supposed to say out loud even though it had always seemed a bit silly to him. “Va…ah, um.”

“Vagina,” Aunt says.

“Vagina,” Charles squeaks, still red. Aunt turns to the next page, but the illustrations remain the same, beautifully detailed brushstrokes in coloured ink showing Charles more than he had ever seen before. His cheeks feel like they’re burning, the heat spreading all the way up his ears and through the rest of his body.

“They’re, um, the same pictures? As before?”

Uncle interrupts. “We can have different words for the same things, don’t we? Have you heard of the word ‘synonym’ before?” He nods to Aunt. “Continue.”

“Member. Cock.” Aunt’s red lips purse around the word, a perfect round shape. “Prick.” One elegantly manicured fingernail traces along the illustration. “Glans. Shaft. Scrotum.”

Uncle looks at him expectantly. Charles tries to swallow down the squirmy feeling that makes him want to fidget and look away from the book. He’s always been a good boy – _sweet boy,_ people had said, _eager to please,_ so he begins: “Member…”

***

_How can I do this? He’s only a boy._

_How can I do anything else? If I leave him, if he casts me out, I have nowhere to go…_

_It’s only words. It’s not so bad._

_Better than being on the street._

_He’s only six._

***

Things improve. He reads a lot, always with his aunt and uncle, learning plenty of new words even though the squirmy feeling never goes away completely. He knows vaguely that there is something not-right, but how does he even talk about what’s happening? Who would he even tell?

 _Only words,_ he thinks to himself, staring at the golden tassels of the rug. _It’s not so bad. Stop being a baby._

Uncle gets him the tutor he had promised and Charles happily throws himself into his studies. For the first time since coming to the mansion, he wakes up each day with something to look forward to. He loves his tutor with the simple adoration of a child. Everything makes sense when they’re together, reading and learning, and he thinks of Britain a little less.

One day, Uncle asks him: “How have you been settling in, Charles?”

Charles looks at his hands. There’s a bit of ink smudged there from where he’s been practicing his letters earlier. There are books scattered all around the room, more arriving by the week since he’s going through them so fast and Uncle had generously agreed to buy whatever books he needed, because family love each other and take care of each other. Outside, it’s bright and sunny, and his tutor had promised they could study on the grounds later. His birthday is coming soon and one of the cooks had promised him cake.

Everything’s good. It’s nice and wonderful and all those other synonyms – he had looked up that word the other day – for good.

“Are you happy here, Charles?” Uncle prompts him.

The switch is still on his bedside table. In another wing of the mansion, his aunt waits.

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

***

_help me help me help us help me_

 

**2.**

Someone is crying in the dark.

_“…Keep me rather in this cage and feed me sparingly...”_

Maybe it’s him?

_“…It is only when you make me suffer that I feel safe and secure…”_

He’s scared. Uncle is in a black mood.

_stupid boy idiot doesn’t even understand what he’s reading_

Charles doesn’t know how to make him stop being so angry.

_help please help_

Why can’t he do anything right?

_i need to get out of here_

***

He starts dreaming of the things he’s read, dim impressions of hands and mouths, fucking and crying.

He dreams of darkness and iron bars, painful emptiness gnawing at his stomach.

He dreams of the reading room and a flight of stairs leading down, down, down, into darkness broken only by a glint of gold.

***

Monday in the reading room, he looks around for stairs but sees nothing.

Tuesday, his uncle takes the switch to him for inattention, and his cries join the ones in his head, a wailing din echoing around the room. His aunt reads calmly through it all.

On Wednesday his tutor presses a hand to his forehead to check for fever, the corners of his eyes crinkling with worry. Charles flinches away. The cries in the reading room grow louder and nobody cares.

Thursday night. He can’t bear it any longer. Whoever is crying is so alone. So scared.

Charles is scared too, but he can’t do _nothing._ He should have tried to do something sooner. Guilty and heartsick, he creeps soft-footed through the darkened halls of the mansion – _don’t see me don’t see me –_ slipping into the wing Uncle had claimed and hugging the walls as he makes his way towards the reading room.

It’s strange to be here without Aunt and Uncle. Charles stops at the doorway, biting his lip. The hall is quiet and empty, the reading lectern packed away, all the books carefully shelved. It could just be any other room.

 _Just any other room,_ he tells himself. So why are his feet glued to the floor? He’s shaking from head to toe as he forces himself to take a step forward.

_Just any other room._

He looks for a staircase that goes down and down, but nothing had changed since Monday; there’s still no staircase. But he’s so _sure_ …

He wishes he could ask someone. He bets Uncle would know. Only, thinking about Uncle – _books darkness cage needles gleaming_ – makes him shiver and wrap his arms around himself, and he chews on his lip and tries not to think about Uncle any more.

Charles has a hunch that he should check the back of the room. No, the floor? Sure, enough, on the floor behind one of the benches is a trapdoor. It’s not even _that_ well-hidden. Charles knows without being told that Uncle is confident no one would get this deep into his inner sanctum without his permission.

His heart is thumping wildly in his chest, panicked, but Charles forces himself to take a deep breath and kneel. The trapdoor opens easily under his small hands. There are stairs, leading down and down until everything is all eaten up by darkness.

He starts walking.

He wants to help whoever is down there.

He doesn’t want them to be hungry and frightened and alone.

(He doesn’t want to be alone.)

A set of heavy steel doors looms in front of him, barred. He’s never been here before in his life but somehow he knows exactly what to do. Charles steps forward, undoing the complicated mechanism that keeps the doors tightly shut, that locks the _things_ inside.

He throws opens the doors. There’s a heavy lever on the wall which he pulls down, flooding the room in harsh light. It’s so _cold,_ the room, all bulky angles, most of the space taken up by heavy machinery with coils and coils of thick wire winding treacherously across the ground. He gingerly steps over the wires, heading deeper into the bunker.

Cabinets. Files. An examination table, with heavy straps built-in. He walks past all of those. His head is pounding, wrapped in a miasma of fear and determination.

He’s close.

At the end of the long, long room is a line of cells. And inside one of those cells –

Uncle.

Charles skitters back a step, heart pounding.

“Boy!” Uncle growls. His big hands wrap around the bars of the cell, and he shakes and shakes at them, the metal jangling. “Let me out of here, boy!”

Charles takes another step back, shaking his head.

“I’m warning you, boy!”

 _Stop,_ Charles says, but all that comes out is a choked noise. Another step back. He stumbles into a table, hand knocking painfully against a corner.

He finds his voice. “You’re not my uncle.”

Uncle – the _thing_ that looks like Uncle – is staring at him, shocked and then scared.

“You’re not,” Charles insists, stronger this time. Uncle is in bed, dreaming red dreams of heat and need. He knows it as surely as he knows that Aunt is sitting silently by the window, watching the play of shadows over the grounds, her eyes fixed on the looming tree in the distance.

“N-nonsense,” the Uncle-shaped thing says, and Charles frowns severely because Uncle would _never_ stutter like that.

“Who are you?”

“I’m… I’m…”

“Stop it,” a new voice says. Charles jumps as a mousy-looking boy shuffles into view. He had hidden himself behind the bulky frame of the man that isn’t Uncle, and even though Charles is looking at the boy now, it’s like he isn’t fully _here._ He feels so small, all curled up into himself with fear and self-hatred, wishing he doesn’t exist.

“It’s no use,” the boy says bitterly. He has funny feet that look like one of those apes Charles had seen in his textbooks and at the zoo. “He must be working with Dr. Marko. What do you want?” He scowls at Charles.

“Dr. Marko is my uncle.” Charles says, unsure.

“See? Told you.” The boy nods at his cellmate.

Charles shakes his head. “I’m _not_ working with him.” It feels very important to say that. “I came because…”

‘Uncle’ scowls and crosses his arms. “Because you wanted to look at the freaks?” He sneers. Suddenly his form ripples like a shoal of gleaming cobalt fish, and before Charles stands a tiny blue girl, something right out of a fairytale. “Happy now?”

Charles can only stare.

“Well?” The girl demands. She sounds angry, but Charles knows she’s scared, and sad, and lonely.

“You’re very pretty,” he says, wanting to cheer her up.

“No she’s not,” the other boy says. The fight had left him; now he’s just tired, his toes curling unhappily against the floor. “We’re freaks, that’s why we’re here.”

“My uncle keeps you here?”

“Mm-hmm,” the girl says. “Him and a few other people. It’s ‘cause we’re mutants.”

“Mutants?” Charles tries to remember what he had read in his science books, rattling off a definition: “Mutation is a mistake or a change in the genetic material of a living thing.”

“Yeah,” the boy says. “A mistake.”

The girl looks at him reproachfully. “Stop talking about us like that!”

“What? It’s true.”

Charles’ head hurts. “Please don’t argue. I still don’t understand why you two are down here. Where are your parents?”

They exchange looks, then shrug together.

“They want to run tests on us to figure out why we’re different,” the girl explains.

“Tests?” Charles has a sinking feeling. “You mean, like – experiments?”

“Uh-huh. They like to make me change shapes a lot.”

“And they make me run these agility courses. Lift weights with my feet. Things like that.”

It all sounds so innocent. Charles bites his lip, knowing they’re holding back. Fear colours the air. He can still remember the desperation he had felt. “Do these tests hurt?”

Another exchange of looks. Then the girl turns around and for the first time Charles sees the huge plaster bandage covering half her back.

“They took some skin from me,” she says, more quietly than before. “’Cause I’m all blue, see? So they want to know why.”

There’s a lump in Charles’ throat. It feels like he can’t breathe properly. His back itches and burns; he wants to scratch it, scratch until he can bleed out the itch.

“They wanted to take one of my feet, but I talked them out of it.” The boy looks resigned. “I told them they can’t do their agility tests if I only have one foot.”

“Same with my eyes,” the girl says, matter-of-fact. “They wanted to take one. But Hank is amazing, he argued with them for so long and they actually listened to him!”

“You’re Hank? I’m Charles.” Charles nods a polite hello at the boy, because it’s easier to focus on that than on how much he wants to throw up. “What about you? What’s your name?”

“Raven.” The girl’s tiny blue face scrunches up into a frown. “Are you really related to Dr. Marko? You’re too nice.”

“Afraid so.”

Hank looks wary. “Did he send you?”

“I told you already, I’m not working for him.”

Hank squints at him. “I’m not sure I believe you.” Then he yelps as Raven punches him in the arm. “Ow!”

“He could help us!” Raven exclaims, turning her golden eyes onto Charles. “Please, let us out, please?”

It’s not even a question. It doesn’t matter how much his body shivers and how fast his heart beats when he thinks about disobeying Uncle. He knows so much now, from the books. He knows all the way disobedient boys can be punished. He knows exactly how it’ll feel, and he knows how much his uncle will enjoy it.

It doesn’t matter. He’ll help them – he has to.

“Of course I will. I’ll make sure you’re safe. I promise.”

Raven smiles at him, and the brightness of her smile is a reward all on its own. Even Hank looks a bit hopeful.

Charles tries the cell door, but predictably, it’s locked. “Is there a key?”

“I think the doctor keeps it somewhere in this room,” Hank says, motioning vaguely towards the end of the room. “Close to the door? He always has to stop and get something there before he lets us out.”

“Okay.” It feels wrong leaving them behind even if it’s just to make his way back to the opposite side of the bunker, and Charles knows they have doubts too, wondering if he’ll just run away and leave them behind. “I won’t leave,” he calls out. “I’m right here, see?” He walks more forcefully than he usually would, making sure his footsteps ring out loud and clear, and is rewarded with the feeling of their relief drifting to him.

Charles looks around the bunker, frowning. There are just _so many_ places to hide a key. He begins poking around at random, opening drawers and cabinets.

So much paperwork. He hunts around for a bit before picking out a heavy binder that looks especially important titled _Protocols,_ hoping it contains a protocol for opening the cells. Or maybe a protocol for an emergency exit?

Instead, it seems to be instructions for experiments that look really interesting, but then he remembers the experiments are done on other humans and Charles feels sick instead. He closes the binder and stuffs it back into place.

The next binder is slimmer. There’s a table of contents that’s just a short list of names. _‘Raven’_ – _F06-002_ jumps out at him first. He looks for Hank’s name but doesn’t see anything, although there is a _McCoy, Henry – M05-001._

There aren’t very many names. He sees _Toynbee, Mortimer; Rasputin, Piotr; Lehnsherr, Erik…._

He jumps when Raven calls out: “Find anything?”

“Not yet!” He can’t get distracted. Charles shelves the folder again and continues looking. If he was Uncle, where would he put it…? Somewhere convenient? Maybe he’s been overthinking it all along? He looks around the walls for a key hook, but that’s a little too easy. Next he tries to figure out where in the room Uncle spends most of his time working – keeping up a constant stream of chatter with Raven and Hank – and finally in one of the drawers he finds a set of keys.

He must have been down here for over an hour already and his eyelids are starting to droop, but Charles pinches himself firmly. Uncle could wake up at any moment. He’s not a deep sleeper. Raven and Hank watch him nervously as he tries key after key, until at last the lock clicks open and the two of them tumble out, Raven darting towards him for an exuberant hug before jumping back just as quickly, hopping nervously from foot to foot.

“Now what?” She asks.

“I was thinking we could go to my room first.” Could they stay there? Forever? Charles knows as soon as the thought crosses his mind that it’s impossible. His uncle is going to be so _angry_ once he wakes up and finds Raven and Hank gone. He’ll upend the whole house looking for them. They won’t ever be safe here.

But he can’t just send them away… Can he?

Hank frowns. “Shouldn’t we just run while we can?”

“No, I’ll get you some new clothes first.” Charles says firmly, trying to project a confidence he doesn’t really feel. Raven and Hank need someone to lean on right now. “And then we’ll go get food. And bags, lots of bags, so you can take whatever you need.”

Raven is nodding vigorously, but her eyes are wide. “That’s so much! Charles, are you sure?”

“I just wish I could do more,” Charles answers honestly. He feels awful again, guilt and fear squirming in his belly. Why didn’t he do something earlier? Maybe then he could have gotten them out before Raven was hurt so bad.

How could he not know his own uncle is doing something like this, right under the room where he reads those stories?

“Come on.” Charles grabs their hands. “Ready?”

The journey back to his room is awful. They creep like mice, hugging the walls and peeking around corners before they move on. Every little creak sends Charles jumping. Poor Hank is even worse off, all hunched up miserably into himself. Raven is the only one who seems calm; she had changed shapes again into Uncle, and every time her broad shadow falls over Charles, he has to stop himself from shivering. _Don’t wake up don’t wake up,_ he chants in his head, _don’t see us we’re not here there’s nothing to see…_

They collapse into a pile once they reach his room and Charles locks the door behind them. Charles doesn’t know who’s the first to start giggling – himself, maybe? – but soon all three of them are tumbling against each other, giddy with relief.

But it’s not over yet. Charles is the one to sober up first, an uneasy feeling crawling up his spine. “Help yourself to anything you need,” he says, throwing open closets and trunks and cabinets.

“Won’t you get into trouble?” Hank looks worried, but he’s peering at a set of shoes anyway.

“I can handle it.” He needs to be strong. Steady. He doesn’t let his voice shake.

Raven is busy trying on different shapes, and she had wrapped herself in one of Charles’ thickest coats. Right now she’s a young boy that looks like a blend of Charles and Hank. “What if he finds out?” She frets. “What if he puts you down there instead?”

Charles swallows. “I won’t let him. If he puts me down there, I’ll–”

 _I’ll never read for him again._ But what if they ask him what he means?

“I’m more worried about you,” Charles says instead. “Where are you guys going to go?”

“Anywhere!” Raven says firmly. “Anywhere else is better than here.”

“Raven’s right. We can figure out a plan as we go.” Hank squints at his feet, trying unsuccessfully to stuff them into a pair of shoes much too small.

“Isn’t there someone you can talk to? The police?”

They both shake their heads immediately. “Don’t trust ‘em,” Raven says decisively. “They won’t help us.”

“Do you know where the nearest town is?” Hank asks.

Charles nods. Between the three of them, they find shoes for Hank and pack bags and bags of food, as much as the two of them can carry. Charles tries to find some money for them too, but he doesn’t know where Uncle keeps it, and all three of them are getting jumpy and nervous, so Charles takes a deep breath and leads them out into the grounds.

It’s cold. It’s dark. They all huddle into their coats, eyes glued to the ground as they troop together to the gigantic tree right at the edge of the property. They come to a stop under its shadow and Charles bites his lip, looking at the road that leads far, far away.

“You’re really going?”

“We can’t stay,” Hank says, but he doesn’t sound very sure.

“It’s dangerous here,” Raven reminds him, tugging on his sleeve. She’s disguised as a blond girl.

“Dangerous everywhere,” Hank mumbles. Charles can tell he misses the warmth of the mansion.

He wants them to stay. It’s been so _long_ since he’s talked to someone his own age. He can’t remember the last time he had laughed with someone else, or the last time he had been hugged or even just had a _conversation._

But asking them to stay would be selfish.

“Raven’s right,” he says firmly, taking charge again. “You won’t be safe here. Not with my uncle around.”

Raven hesitates, then blurts out: “You should come with us!”

“Huh?”

“Doctor is going to be so so mad at you. You said we won’t be safe here, but you won’t either! Charles, come with us!”

“I–” Charles looks past the looming darkness of the tree, at the pale gleam of the road under moonlight. “You really think so?”

“ _Yes!”_

It’s such a huge step to take. He’ll be leaving behind everything he knows.

He’ll be free.

…He’ll be holding them up.

Because– because he’s not special like they are. He doesn’t even know anything about the world outside the mansion or boarding school, and even his memories of boarding school are fading already.

He’ll be a burden on them, and their lives are hard enough already.

“I shouldn’t,” he says quietly, taking a step back.

Raven’s face falls, but Hank nods. “Thank you so much, Charles.”

Raven puts on a brave smile. “We won’t forget you.”

There’s nothing else to say after that. His eyes burning, his throat painfully tight, Charles stands under the yew tree and watches as Raven and Hank slip away to freedom.

 

**3.**

Charles jerks awake in the middle of the night, drenched in cold sweat. Uncle is so _angry._

He pulls the blankets over his head and tries to not exist.

***

The next day passes in a series of blurry fragments.

“Young master, have you seen your coat?” _Lord Marko is so angry this morning why did the kid have to choose today to act up–_

His tutor is frowning, half-frustrated, half-concerned. “You’re miles away today, Charles, are you all right–”

He’s sitting at the dining table. His head hurts. He can’t remember sitting down. He hopes Raven and Hank are far, far away.

Everyone is so _loud._

 _Shut up,_ he wants to scream. _shut up shut up shut up_

But he’s a good boy. Good boys don’t make a fuss.

And then–

Reading time comes as it always does, day after day. Slow, leaden footsteps carry him to the recital hall. As usual, his aunt is already sitting on the circular stage.

But the lectern is packed away and Uncle isn’t there. “Charles,” Aunt says. It’s the first time she’s ever spoken directly at him.

“Yes, Aunt?”

She is silent for so long that Charles thinks she’s decided to go back to pretending he doesn’t exist. But finally, she says: “Your uncle is busy today.”

Charles resists the urge to glance over at the trapdoor that leads to the bunker. “Should I go?”

“Yes.” Then: “Charles, wait.”

More confused than ever, Charles stops obediently. “Do you need me for something, Aunt?”

“…The grounds are dangerous at night.”

Oh _no._

Aunt was watching last night. He remembers now. She had been sitting by the window, watching the grounds as she thinks of escape. She must have seen him.

And he had led Raven and Hank right into her sights.

“Be good, Charles,” Aunt says, distant again, dismissing him.

Charles bolts.

***

Life goes on.

He’s progressing quickly in his studies, so Uncle hires him another tutor, this one focusing exclusively on the sciences.

His reading is growing smoother, and he’s growing up quickly, so Uncle hires him a voice coach. It will be time for his debut soon, Uncle promises.

Uncle watches him. Morning, afternoon, night. Uncle watches.

***

Then the crying begins again.

***

This time, Charles doesn’t hesitate. After practice – the private one, with only Uncle and Aunt present – he goes straight to his room and packs some clothes and essentials. Then it’s down to the kitchen to beg some food from the cooks, who are happy to indulge him. _Such a sweet boy,_ one of them says without moving her lips. _Nothing like his uncle._

“Thank you,” he tells her politely, and flees before anyone can ask him questions.

Later that night, he knows without having to see that Aunt is watching the grounds again. _Sleep,_ he prays fiercely. _Please sleep._

He breaths a sigh of relief as she moves to the bed.

…But where is Uncle?

He tries for a full hour to find him, knowing it’s too dangerous to keep going when Uncle could jump out at him at any moment, but Charles can’t _feel_ anything no matter how hard he tries.

 _Sorry,_ he thinks at the direction of the bunker. He can’t do it tonight.

But what if whoever is down there gets hurt like Raven, because Charles was too much of a coward to help earlier? He bites his lip as he paces around his room. He has to do _something._

In the end, shivering but determined, Charles creeps mouse-like out of his room and down into the bunker.

It’s a girl this time. She has the beautiful wings of a dragonfly and grudgingly tells him her name is Angel. She’s sullen, angry and wary and mistrustful, but Charles doesn’t hold it against her. He can feel her fear. He has the bag full of supplies with him, so the only thing left to do is to guide her to the edge of the property and see her off.

Moonlight slants in through the windows as he leads the two of them along the hallways, drowning everything in a wash of grey. The mansion is so huge and _quiet._ Every small creak sends the two of them jumping, Angel’s wings trembling in a constant nervous buzz.

Aunt is still asleep.

Uncle is…

Charles shivers. “I think we need to change our plan.”

“What?”

“Uncle is right outside.”

Angel stares at him, eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

“I just do.” He’s a perceptive boy, that’s what everyone says.

Angel is backing away, her wings flaring out aggressively. “You’re working with him!” She accuses, clutching at the bag of supplies. “You’re trying to trick me!”

“I’m not, I promise!” How does he make her understand? “Please, you have to believe me!”

Shaking her head, Angel keeps backing away, and even though Charles wants to dart forward and grab her into a reassuring hug, he makes himself smile and raise his hands, harmless. _It’s okay. I’m your friend._

Angel’s eyes grow wide and round. “I can hea– your voice…” She stammers.

Charles keeps smiling, soothing. “Follow me, okay?” _Please don’t argue please don’t we’re running out of time…_

Silently, Angel trails after him, and Charles is too relieved to think too much about her abrupt change of heart. He leads the way to the opposite side of the mansion and up a few floors for good measure, taking the stairs two at a time. His palms are cold and clammy. “You can fly, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m taking you to a room with a big window. Can you fly out of it?”

“I think so.”

“Okay.”

Into the room. It’s dark, and Charles fumbles with the window latches for _ages_ , but he doesn’t dare put on a light. Finally, it clicks open, and Charles throws the windows open.

“Go on,” he urges Angel.

Angel hesitates, then clambers onto the window ledge. “We’re really high up,” she says dubiously. “What if I fall?”

“You won’t. I believe in you. You can do it!”

It’s the right thing to say. He sees Angel smile for the first time. Charles beams at her in return. She’ll be safe now. She’ll be free.

“Bye,” Angel says. “And thanks.”

“Bye.” There’s a weird choked up feeling in his throat as he watches Angel balance herself on the ledge, her wings fanning out. Charles rubs his eyes. He should be happy for her.

But…

 _Don’t be silly,_ he scolds himself. He can’t go with her. He can’t fly, and even if he could – if he leaves, then who would stop Uncle?

He watches her instead, drinking in the iridescence of her wings, remembering Raven’s blue, Hank’s feet. They’re all so amazing. He doesn’t understand how Uncle could…

Charles shivers, wrapping his arms around himself.

Angel’s wings beat, once, twice. Then she jumps. And even though Charles _knows_ she can fly, he can’t help shouting in surprise, heart leaping into his throat as he runs to the window. The night chill slices sharply against his cheeks as he sticks his head out – where’s Angel? What if she falls after all? The bag is awfully heavy…

 His breath whooshes out of him in relief when he sees Angel soar up.

There’s a flash of silver.

_“No!”_

Angel cries out. There’s a dart sticking out of her shoulder. The beat of her wings slow, falter. She drops a few feet, and–

Hatred. Fear. _Liar!_ She’s screaming at him, her anger battering against him in a black tide. _I knew it, you were working with them!_

“No! I’m not, I didn’t know–”

Angel’s hatred flickers and snuffs out as the sedatives in the dart work through her bloodstream. She crashes into the ground with a thump, one of her beautiful wings twisting horribly.

A shadow detaches itself from the nearby trees, a gun in its hands. It’s his science tutor.

Now that Charles can see him, he can _feel_ him too. Dr. Essex is satisfied by a job well done. Dr. Essex is curious about something.

Dr. Essex is looking right at him. He smiles. _Come down, little Charles,_ he says, even though it should be impossible to hear him from this distance. _Your uncle is waiting for you._

Charles shrinks away. Could he just – go back to his room and pretend nothing had happened?

But Angel…

Charles goes. The grounds are dark and freezing. Uncle is waiting for him at the door.

“Where’s Angel?” Charles demands immediately.

“Safe.”

“Safe?”

“Dr. Essex is with her. You trust him, don’t you?”

Charles shakes his head. “Why is Dr. Essex here?”

“He’s my colleague. It means we work together.”

“I know what colleague means,” Charles snaps.

Uncle smiles thinly. “Yes, you’re a smart boy. I’ve always appreciated that, you know. I can treat you like an adult.”

Charles can’t help enjoying the praise, but he demands again: “Where’s Angel?”

“I’ve told you already.”

It’s not working. Charles changes his approach. “Dr. Essex mentioned you wanted to see me.”

“I did. Let’s go inside.”

“ _No.”_ Charles isn’t good with fighting and arguments, so he puts on his best smile, wobbly as it is. “Please, Uncle, can’t we just talk here? I have so many questions.”

“So do I, Charles. What were you doing with Angel tonight?”

Usually Charles knows how to say the right thing. Usually he’s good at knowing what people are feeling, what they’re thinking. But Uncle feels like a wall to him. Charles fidgets. “I heard her crying. I had to help.” He meets Uncle’s eyes. He _can’t_ let Uncle keep doing this. “Why were you doing all those things? Angel was so scared, and I saw what you did to Raven…”

“Oh yes, Raven and Hank. Horrible looking devils, aren’t they?”

“I think they’re brilliant,” Charles says coolly.

Uncle laughs. “You would, wouldn’t you. I guess it’s natural for you to sympathize with your own kind.”

“…My own kind?”

“Mutants.” Uncle’s eyes gleam. He seems disgusted and excited all at once, almost triumphant. Greedy. Charles can’t _read_ him properly; his head throbs. “You’re a freak just like them, boy. Have you heard of the word _telepath_ before?”

“Someone who reads minds,” Charles replies automatically. “But that’s just in the stories, Uncle, they don’t _exist._ You can’t really think I’m one?”

“I know you are. How else would you have heard Angel? How else would you know how to get down to the bunker?”

“You’re crazy.” Charles takes a step back. “It’s impossible.”

Uncle stares at him. Then, loud and deep as the toll of a bell: _Raven and Hank are dead because of you._

Charles flinches. “Stop it!”

“You see?” Uncle smiles. His teeth gleam in the moonlight like a butcher’s blade. “I didn’t speak aloud, but you still heard me. You heard my _thoughts,_ Charles.”

“I didn’t–” His voice is rising to a pitch, childish and frantic. “What did you say about Raven and Hank? They can’t be… You’re lying!” But Uncle is like a steel wall, he can’t read anything from him, he can’t tell, _he can’t tell–_

“Oh, Charles.” _Nobody likes a freak –_ and Charles can _feel_ the last word, a sickly mess of revulsion and fascination. “Why do you think we kept them here, out of sight?” _You know how people are. Superstitious. They thought your Raven was a devil._

An image of a noose. A hanging body, small and broken. Charles squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. The image doesn’t go away. “Raven would have been careful, she wouldn’t have… Stop it! Stop lying!”

“Believe what you want. But you’re lucky we caught Angel in time, or she would have gone the same way.”

“You weren’t protecting them! You were experimenting on them! I heard them, they were so scared all the time!” If Uncle could just feel it, all their pain and fear… Charles pictures it, a great tide of clawing desperation crashing over Uncle’s head. He just wants Uncle to _understand._

Uncle suddenly flinches. Then his face grows hard. “Very interesting. But you can stop now.”

He grabs Charles by the arm, and when Charles tries to yank away, Uncle grips him tight enough to bruise. “You’re not wrong. We were running tests on them, and those tests hurt. But better that than dead, eh?”

“If you’re serious about protecting them…”

“We had to cure them.”

“There’s nothing wrong with them!”

“Idiot boy.” Uncle shakes him, hard enough to make his teeth rattle. His head _hurts._ Charles pictures his brain bouncing around in his skull, bruising and bleeding. “Open your eyes. The rest of the world doesn’t think so.”

“That’s still not a reason. Why can’t you just give them a home here? We’ve got so much space.”

“We still have to find out more about them. I had a son, you know. Big, violent brute. Can you imagine if someone like him was born with your power? We need to protect ourselves.”

Charles shakes his head again. Nothing Uncle is saying sounds right. “You’re _hurting_ them.”

“I am. Shame, too, we’d get so much cleaner results if they cooperated.”

How can Uncle not care at all? “It’s wrong!” Charles bursts out. “You have to stop.”

Uncle smiles his butcher-knife smile again. “Going to stop me?” _You can’t do anything._

“I’ll tell.” He’ll find another adult. They’ll take care of it.

“Tell who?” Uncle ruffles his hair like he’s his own son. “Who would believe you? Boy like you, living in a big house like this, everyone expects you to have a wild imagination. Come along, Charles.”

Uncle’s big hands land on his shoulder, steering him back into the mansion. Fear rises in the back of Charles’ throat. “What do you mean? Where are we going?”

But he knows already.

“The bunker, of course. Got to run some preliminary tests on you.”

 _Nonono no._ His heart thumps wildly. Charles staggers, trying to wriggle out of Uncle’s grip, but Uncle only holds on more firmly. _Stop!_

Uncle doesn’t even flinch. “Enough,” he says sternly. “Unless you want another beating?”

“Don’t do it.” Charles _hates_ how teary and panicked he sounds. “Uncle, please. Please don’t.”

“Don’t whine, Charles, it won’t change anything. Are you going to cooperate or not?”

“I…”

He looks up at Uncle. There’s no mercy to be found on his face. No guilt or regret.

Several things click into place.

Uncle will have his way with him no matter what. He can’t let Uncle continue hurting people like Raven. He needs to find out more about what Uncle and his colleagues are doing.

“If I… If I cooperate, you said you’d get better results, right?”

Uncle looks at him speculatively. “Trying to bargain? Let’s hear it.”

Charles takes a deep breath. “I’ll help you with all the tests you do. I won’t complain about the reading anymore either. But don’t do the tests on anyone else.”

“You can’t do anything to stop me if I say no.”

Can he? Charles still thinks Uncle is barking mad when it comes to the whole _telepathy_ thing – it sounds like something out of a story, but then so does everything else that’s been happening – but he knows Uncle believes it.

And maybe that’s the important thing here.

“I’ll make things hard for you.” He says it calmly, knowing from experience that raising his voice will only earn him a thrashing. “You don’t need anyone else when you have me anyway. Reading minds is going to be more useful than anything else you can find.” He feels cold when he thinks about how Uncle is going to use him, but he needs to do this. For Raven. “So. Do you agree?”

_Say yes. Say yes._

Uncle stares at him. Charles can’t read him at all.

_Say yes._

“Yes.”

 

**4.**

It’s another day. The leaves outside are wilting, brown and dead, and his room is cold. It must be close to winter. Late October? November? He’s lost track of the date again.

Charles burrows deeper into his blankets, resolutely not looking at the clock on the mantle place. He knows he’s expected at breakfast soon, and after that Uncle will take him to the reading hall. Perhaps they will finish the volume on the girl and her schoolmaster. Or perhaps Uncle will lead him to the back of the room, down the trapdoor and into the impenetrable steel walls of bunker. _Range tests,_ he had overheard from Uncle’s mind yesterday, accompanied by a picture of needles and snarling wires.

Somewhere, a bell chimes. Charles closes his eyes.

He’ll get up later.

***

Everyone says he’s a clever boy – even Uncle. Charles wonders why that is. He feels slow and stupid most of the time, drifting hazily somewhere above his own body, unsure if he’s thinking his own thoughts or if it’s someone else’s thoughts pouring through his mind right now. It’s only during his tutoring sessions that Charles feels lucid, and even then he feels guilty for enjoying them, knowing it’s just another way Uncle plans to use him once he’s developed enough knowledge to be an asset.

“Very good, Charles,” Dr. Essex tells him after one lesson. “You’re reading well above your level. Soon you might even be able to help with our work! I can teach you how to design your own experiments, isn’t that exciting?”

“Yes,” Charles says obediently, although he doubts Uncle will ever give him that kind of control. Dr. Essex pats him encouragingly on the arm, and Charles tenses, waiting for Dr. Essex’s touch to go…other places.

He’s read the books. He knows how these things are supposed to happen.

Dr. Essex smiles. “Now, turn over to the next chapter and we’ll start discussing how our current understanding of environmental epigenetics might allow us to salvage something from Lamarck’s utter mess of use-disuse evolutionary theory …”

***

Uncle’s hand rests warm against his back as Charles flops bonelessly onto the ground. The floor of the bunker is icy cold against his cheek. His head swims.

Voices. Everywhere.

Fuck. What had Uncle put into that serum?

“Come back to me, Charles,” Uncle’s voice coaxes him from somewhere far, far away.

Charles hurls himself deeper into the whirlwind of thoughts and minds. Vaguely, he’s aware of a meaty palm slapping across his face. The crack of a belt. Then the coolness of an antiseptic swab against his upper arm, followed by the prick of a needle.

He awakes some time later in his own room. Someone had bathed him, changed his clothes for him, tucked him in. He wonders if they had done other things.

Charles closes his eyes again and tries to return to unconsciousness.

***

_He’s replacing me with that boy._

_Maybe it’s better this way._

***

The lab again. His bare chest is cold. Uncle is done with him for the day, but he doesn’t unstrap him from the examination table.

“I’m arranging your debut,” Uncle tells him.

 _No,_ Charles thinks. “Okay,” he says.

“What would you like to read?”

Behind the walls that shield his mind, Uncle’s amusement curls dark and poisonous, just as it had during all those times he had told Charles to go cut his own switch. Something in Charles flares.

“I really would rather not,” he says coolly, imperious.

“Oh, Charles,” Uncle sighs. “You agreed to cooperate, remember? You chose to be here.”

Charles turns his face away and refuses to answer.

Uncle turns away. His footsteps echo through the bunker, growing fainter and fainter.

The doors slam shut.

Alone in the dark, Charles rubs his wrists bloody against the restraints. Time is meaningless. He’s left there until his stomach gnaws clean through itself from hunger, until his heart starts racing uncontrollable in the claustrophobic darkness, until his bladder is so full that he can’t hold it in any longer and he has to lie there in his own piss, red-faced with shame, his eyes burning and prickling.

He won’t cry. He won’t.

***

_“…You will remember at all times that you have lost all right to privacy or concealment…”_

He studies. He goes down to the lab. He reads. He loses track of the date again.

The night of his debut comes. Uncle dresses him in a schoolboy’s uniform, a relic of the life he had led before the mansion. He follows Aunt into the reading room. It’s fuller than ever before, with almost a dozen men lounging about the seats, each smartly dressed in a suit and tie, smoking and talking among themselves, indistinguishable from each other. As he walks to the dais, their attention presses suffocatingly down on him. _Nice legs – cute face – virgin? – has Marko fucked him yet –_ Charles breathes out slowly, trying to block out the images of himself straddling them, being pushed to his knees...

Aunt’s face is beautiful and serene, her painted lips curved into an enigmatic smile. Her mind is a flawless, polished mirror, letting nothing in, letting nothing out.

Charles copies her as well as he can.

_“…In your presence I will never close my lips completely, or cross my legs, or press my knees together…”_

He reads as Uncle had taught him – _smoothly, like a ribbon, like a silken rope –_ with just a touch of virginal shyness. The men lean forward. Their lips are parted, their legs spread, their eyes hungry.

_“…My one and only duty is to lend myself. My body is not my own…”_

***

_What will happen when he doesn’t have need of me anymore?_

***

The trees are stark and bare when Uncle leaves on a business trip. Charles sees freedom stretch gloriously in front of him: no readings, no tests, no disciplinary measures. He can spend all day with his nose buried in a book and no one will care. Dr. Essex has been giving him more and more advanced material lately, and Charles thinks that if only he can _show_ everyone what he’s reading, show them how science can explain even the strangest and scariest things, then people won’t be so afraid anymore. They won’t hate people like Raven and Hank and Angel. They won’t hurt people who are _different._

Instead, Charles sleeps in. Ten, twelve hours. Fourteen. Time loses meaning.

He sleeps until he’s tired from too much sleep, until his back hurts and his eyes are gritty and sore. There’s a constant throbbing ache at the back of his eyeballs. His temples. The base of his skull.

Sometimes people try to wake him. But he learns quickly that if he just closes his eyes again and mumbles something about being sick, they’re quick to leave him alone.

He thinks something might be wrong, but it’s easier to just sleep.

***

It _hurts._ Charles curls up in his blankets, clutching his head. It feels like – like someone is driving a knife through the side of his head. Every single movement makes his head pound and he bites back a whimper, fingernails digging into his scalp like he can reach inside and _rip_ the pain out.

Without warning, his bedroom door slams open. Uncle looms in the doorway, returned from his business trip. Charles is supposed to be at the lab with him right now. “You’re late,” Uncle growls, and Charles flinches away.

“I’m sick,” he whispers.

He shrinks deeper into the blankets as Uncle’s heavy footsteps come closer. Uncle presses one hand to his forehead, feeling for fever. Even that small motion sends another spike of pain flashing white behind Charles’ eyes. His head throbs in time with the rapid, nervous flutter of his pulse.

“Your temperature’s normal,” Uncle says dismissively. “Don’t _lie,_ boy, I know you’ve been lazing around in bed for days. Get up.”

“I can’t!”

Uncle drags him up anyway, forcing Charles to stumble along, eyes squeezed shut. Everything is so bright and loud. “So much fuss over a headache,” Uncle mutters to himself as he shoves Charles through the reinforced doors of the bunker, “it’s a miracle anyone puts up with you. Go on. Strip. Get on the table.”

The harsh lights of the bunker are blinding. There’s a sour taste at the back of his throat, his stomach roils; without warning, he starts to retch, choking on watery fluid and acid.

When he’s done, Uncle backhands him across the face. Charles stumbles and falls. He could climb back to his feet, but what’s the point?

“Why?” He asks weakly. The pain stabs deeper than ever. “Why are you even doing all this?”

“Table. Now.”

Charles has enough of obeying. For the first time in his memory, he consciously wills the power inside him to reach _out,_ to scoop out Uncle’s thoughts and feelings. Uncle always has walls around his mind but Charles batters at them now, reckless in his despair.

The walls shatter.

It’s like falling into an ocean storm. Uncle’s emotions crash over his head, waves black as tar and flecked with bloody foam. Hatred, disgust, fear…

Lust. Greed. _Want._

Charles tries to detangle their minds, but it’s Uncle who holds onto him, forcing picture after picture into his head of all the things he wants to do to him.

“Stop it,” Charles gasps, still lying on the floor. He tries to scramble away, horrified. He can’t. He can’t.

Abruptly, the flow of images stops. Walls slam around Uncle’s mind again, and he looks down at Charles scornfully. “Found what you were looking for, boy?”

Charles hugs himself, shaking. His head feels like it’s about to explode. “I don’t understand,” he babbles, too worn-out to care about making sense. He floats somewhere above his own body. “You don’t make sense. You hate me so much, but you still– you still want me. And my powers. I felt it.”

Uncle’s hands scoop him up like he weighs nothing. He walks the short distance to the examination table, ignoring Charles’ weak thrashing as he dumps him onto the table and begins to methodically secure him in place with the straps. Moving around so much _hurts._ By the time Uncle starts attaching electrodes to his scalp, Charles had closed his eyes, trying to keep still. Even then, the bunker’s lights stab harsh and bright through his eyelids.

“Hmm,” Uncle says after a while. “No significant changes in brain activity that I can see. But I don’t think you’re faking your symptoms, are you?”

 _Obviously not._ But talking to Uncle never helped before, and it won’t start helping now. As Uncle muses over the tests he should run next, Charles retreats deeper into his mind, returning to his memories of Raven and Hank and Angel. It’s only fair – right? That what happened to them is happening to him too? It’s all his fault. He should have done something sooner. Something more.

It’s fair.

***

_He’s spending more and more time with the boy._

_I’m being replaced._

***

The headache goes away. Then it comes back. Again and again, an endless cycle without rhyme or rhythm. For the first few months Charles preoccupies himself with keeping a journal in his child’s scrawl, tidy for his age, trying to narrow down the cause of the stabbing headaches. It’s almost like a puzzle. For the first time in months, he’s excited by something. It feels good to have a problem he can work on.

Time passes. Nothing changes. _Why bother,_ he thinks once, setting down his pen and resting his head against the crook of his folded arms. He’s so tired.

Slowly, the entries dwindle, then stop.

His bedroom is dark, the curtains drawn. Uncle has learnt to leave him alone on these days, when the pain interferes too much with the tests and his reading comes out clumsy and lifeless. In a way, these are his most peaceful days. Charles drifts somewhere above his own body, disconnected from the small, pale boy on the bed. Thoughts hum all around him, quiet enough that their emotion is dulled, and they wash over him like waves on the shore of a pristine white beach, lapping harmlessly against his bare feet.

Sometimes, he wishes he could drown in those waters.

Sometimes, he wishes for a lot of things. It’s worst on those days when he guiltily sinks into the minds of the mansion’s inhabitants and the people of the nearby town, curling up wary and cat-like at the back of their skulls, seeing through their eyes and savouring a brief taste of their lives.

More than anything, he wants to find others like him. People who are… _different._ But they’re better off somewhere else, somewhere far from Uncle. In every mind he encounters, he implants the quietest of suggestions to _stay away stay away stay away from the big mansion in Westchester…_

(He never, ever tries to enter Uncle’s mind.)

***

Charles freezes the second he enters the lab, whirling around to face Uncle, shocked and afraid. “You _promised,”_ he says accusingly.

“Oh?”

“You promised! You won’t run the tests on anyone else! I can feel him, you have a boy in the cells!”

Uncle gives him an approving look. “Your range is improving. Come with me. Shall we meet him?”

The boy is sitting docilely in the cell. He’s drugged; Charles can recognize the glazed look in his eyes and the strange floaty feeling of his mind. Even when Uncle unlocks the cell, the boy doesn’t so much as glance their way.

“Why is he here? What do you want with him?”

“You remember all those tests we ran on your brainwaves.” As Uncle talks, Charles can’t help rubbing at his scalp, remembering the clinging electrodes and the prick of needles. “I think I’ve identified specific patterns that manifest whenever you use your unnatural ability. Today, I’m going to induce those patterns in that boy. We’ll see if anything interesting happens.”

“You can’t– you promised–!”

Charles doesn’t like the way Uncle is smiling. Not one bit. “So I did. But I can’t let this boy go now, can I? He knows too much. Unless…”

There’s a trap closing around him, but better him than an innocent. Charles braces himself. “Unless?”

“Make him forget. I know you can do it.”

Charles looks at him, teeth clenched. “That’s what you wanted to do all along. You don’t really want to run tests on him at all.”

“Reading me again, boy?”

“No,” Charles snaps. “Just logic.” He’ll never read Uncle again. Ever.

“So? Are you going to do it?”

“I can’t, I don’t know how to. My power doesn’t…”

Uncle scoffs. “Don’t be silly. I know what you can do. You’ve been manipulating the staff, haven’t you? When you don’t want to be found, they don’t find you. When you want to be left alone, they leave you alone.”

What? “I haven’t! I wouldn’t!”

“Enough of your lies. Unless…” He crouches down. Charles makes himself meet his eyes, and Uncle smiles darkly. “Now this is interesting. You must be doing it unconsciously. You’re such a good boy, you wouldn’t be _using_ people on purpose, would you?”

“I’m not like you,” Charles retorts, and immediately regrets his boldness. But Uncle only chuckles.

“Good boy. Now. Are you going to do it or shall I get the machines ready?” Uncle jerks his head at the boy inside the cell, then grips Charles by the shoulder and turns him around, forcing him to look at one of the machines, a hulking monstrosity bristling with wires and probes. Charles has been in it before. He knows it hurts.

“If I do it… You’ll really let him go?”

Uncle smiles the smile of someone who knows they’ve already won. “I will. You must know you’re the only one I’m really interested in, Charles. My good boy.”

Charles nods tightly. Uncle unlocks the cell door for him, unceremoniously shoving him inside. Charles feels a spike of panic, wondering if this is all a ploy to lock him away forever, but Uncle leaves the door open.

The boy inside the cell stirs. “No,” he mumbles, “don’t wanna.”

“Shh.” Charles rests a hand on the boy’s forehead. They’re about the same age, the same height – the boy even _looks_ like him. Uncle must have spent ages picking him out.

Charles looks into the dull blue eyes and _pushes,_ falling into the boy’s hazy thoughts. He’s from the town. An orphan. No one will miss him if he disappears. He’s been here since last night and all his memories are dark and muddled. He hasn’t seen Uncle’s face clearly.

It won’t be hard to take those memories. To wind them up like fragile old cobwebs and _rip_. Maybe it would even be a nice thing to do? The boy can’t be afraid of something he can’t remember.

But Charles can’t. Instead, he visualizes a white shroud draping over everything the boy remembers since yesterday evening. He bundles all those memories up carefully, very carefully, smoothing them into a peaceful white void. It’s the kindest thing he can think of doing.

 _Don’t be afraid,_ he tells the boy, mind-to-mind. _Just sleep, okay? You don’t have to worry about anything when you’re asleep._

He pulls back gently, and when he opens his eyes again, the boy is sound asleep. Uncle watches him with a frown, and Charles meets his eyes evenly. He feels curiously calm. He’s done something which shouldn’t be possible. He’s done something he shouldn’t have done. He’s just changed someone’s mind, maybe forever. “What are you going to do with him?”

“I’ll have someone drop him off where we found him. He’ll be asked a few questions when he wakes up, we’ll see if he remembers anything.”

“Okay.” Charles takes a step forward. His eyes never leave Uncle’s. “But you broke your promise.”

Uncle doesn’t say a word.

“Don’t do it again.” His head is pounding. “If you do it, I’ll break my promise too.” He _wills_ Uncle to listen. “Don’t do it again.”

“Fine.” Uncle’s voice is strangely hollow. “We’ll both keep our promises.”

***

Uncle comes to his bedroom the next night, when the grounds are dark and the moon the thinnest of slivers in the sky. Charles draws the blankets tightly around himself as he sits up, his heart thumping rabbit-fast. He crosses his legs and presses his knees tightly together. Uncle gives him an amused look, but then his mouth thins.

“That boy from yesterday… What did you do?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

Uncle’s eyes glitter; he looks – _intrigued._ “His mind is empty. He can’t stay awake. What did you do, Charles?”

Charles’ own mind whites out. From very far away, he hears himself say: “What do you mean, empty?”

“Empty. You scooped everything right out of him.”

No no no. This is all wrong.

“I didn’t, I can’t have…”

Uncle must be lying. He must be. Just like he – he lied about Raven and Hank, he must have, Charles has looked and looked and he hadn’t found anyone who knew them, much less killed them…

“I didn’t!” Charles insists, and Uncle shakes his head pityingly.

“Get some sleep. We’ll run more tests tomorrow. You can’t let this happen again.”

***

He just –

He wants to sleep.

He doesn’t want to wake up again. He wants it so fiercely that his chest hurts.

***

_He doesn’t have a use for me anymore._

_He won’t leave loose ends lying around._

***

Adults, Charles had long ago learnt, enjoy showing off their children. His mother had done it, presenting him at dinner parties where her friends could praise him on his good manners and his academics. (Of course, that was before she had him packed off to boarding school where he wouldn’t disturb her.) Now Uncle is doing it too. After another successful night of reading – where did Aunt go? She was there just a moment ago… – Uncle has wrapped a paternal arm around Charles’ shoulder and is now in the process of introducing him to all his associates.

“A lovely voice, truly remarkable,” one of them compliments him with a tip of his wineglass. “You’ll give us marvellous entertainment in a few years’ time.”

How dare he. Charles isn’t a – a _thing,_ a songbird to perform on Uncle’s command. He won’t be here in a few years’ time. He’s about to snap–

But his power had already reached out of its own accord, slipping across the man’s mind and coming away tarred with his eagerness to humiliate, to dominate. Charles averts his eyes and gives him a bland smile. “Thank you, sir,” he says.

Polite. Demure. Charming, but with little personality. Someone of absolutely no interest.

“Meek little thing, isn’t he?” One of them says to Uncle. His mind is red and cruel, his eyes raking hotly over Charles’ body. Charles can’t help shrinking back, and Uncle draws him closer, possessive. The man continues: “That’s no proper way for a boy his age to behave. You should let me train him out of it.”

 _He doesn’t need shame in his position,_ the man is thinking. His mind is filled with sense-memories of Aunt’s white skin splitting open, the coppery spray of blood, the curves of her body spread out on display.

Charles musters his best smile, boyish and innocent. “Uncle gives me so much training, I can’t possibly take on more.” He leans against Uncle suggestively even as he tries not to shiver, his skin crawling.

The man chuckles and waves him away, sufficiently entertained.

And so it goes. For each new man he’s introduced to, Charles skims lightly over their mind and adjusts accordingly. He flows from mood to mood, from virginal innocence to polite, well-bred formality to lively charm to something… _else,_ a being of coy smiles and alluring glances loaded with meaning, the sort of _nymphet_ he’s read to all these men about. _Asking for it, just look at him,_ one of the men thinks, his eyes fixed on Charles’ lips.

Charles grimly clings to one comforting thought: Uncle is too possessive to let any of these men touch him.

Eventually, the night ends with Aunt still missing. Uncle personally brings him back to his bedroom, his hand a constant heavy pressure against the small of Charles’ back. “Let me help you get ready for bed,” he says, and Charles can’t stop trembling. In the darkness of the room, Uncle has him stand by the bed as his fingers go to the first button of Charles’ collared shirt.

He stands deathly still as Uncle undoes the buttons one by one. As his shirt falls unceremoniously to the floor, Charles closes his eyes.

Is this going to be the rest of his life? Forever?

***

_I can’t. I can’t do this anymore._

Charles huddles in his bed, arms thrown over his face, shaking uncontrollably.

_I need to get out of here._

_Just let me escape._

_Please. Let me escape._

_I’ll do anything._

His cheeks are wet and hot.

_I don’t want to wake up again._

***

The next day, they find Aunt’s body. She hangs from a silken rope, her neck snapped, her feet dangling off the ground. Above her, the yew tree looms black against the boundary of the estate.

 

**5.**

“Did you kill her?”

“Did you?”

He and Uncle stare at each other in the harsh sunlight that slants through the windows of Uncle’s study. Charles is the first to look away.

“I can’t help you anymore,” he says. “I’m never using my telepathy again.”

“You think you did it? Influenced her?”

“I don’t know _._ ”

He could look. Uncle’s mind is walled up tight as always, but he’s stronger now. He can break down those walls. Uncle has the means and – he knows from the stray wisps of thought he had gotten from Aunt’s mind – he has motive.

He could look, but he doesn’t.

He’s too afraid of what he’ll find.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Uncle is saying. “You’ve always had poor control, and we’ve recorded plenty of incidents where you subconsciously use your telepathy. A whole library’s worth of them.”

“I’m never using it again.”

“You can’t turn it off,” Uncle says frankly. “You’re using it even now, aren’t you?”

It’s true. It’d be like trying to turn off his hearing – utterly impossible. Even if he can’t read Uncle he still gets a faint sense of his presence, a prickling awareness at the back of his mind that he can’t sever.

“I’ll find a way.”

“Why? Your gift is a wonderful one. Imagine if everyone could communicate mind-to-mind like you do – no more misunderstandings, no more wasting _hours_ on arguments…”

No more fear of the unknown. No more fear of those who are different.

It’s so hard to remember why those things are important, but Charles clings to them the best he can.

Uncle continues: “Really, your only problem is your control. You may never develop it to a sufficient level, so you see why it’s important for you to stay here. At home. You’ll have a hard time finding a place more isolated than this mansion. Can you imagine what’ll happen if you lose control in a city?”

Charles looks out of the window mutely. Uncle nods. “That’s right. And I do promise you, Charles, if I can’t find a way to control your telepathy, I’ll help you get rid of it. One way or the other. Do we have a deal?”

Outside, the yew tree is a dark stain on the grounds. Charles thinks about a fluttering rope of silk, a noose.

He has an escape if he’s brave enough to take it. He always had. Maybe it would even be the selfless thing to do. Nothing good can come from giving Uncle more and more chances to run experiments on him.

“Do we have a deal?” Uncle barks, impatient.

Charles has never been brave enough. “Yes,” he says quietly.

 

**6.**

Time passes. Days, months, years, all blurring into each other, an endless grey haze.

Sometimes Charles wakes with his heart in his throat, a suffocating pressure crushing down on his ribcage. He needs to do _something –_ this can’t be the rest of his life, it can’t–

He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified when the panic always, inevitably, fades away, replaced by a familiar numbness and tired resignation. _Waiting to die,_ he thinks cynically, staring at the worn golden tassels of the rug. Maybe today will be the day one of Uncle’s machines shorts out his brain.

Time passes.

 

**7.**

Charles first meets Sebastian Shaw during a particularly lurid reading of _The Misfortunes of Virtue._

Such readings are entirely routine by now.  Eyes on the page, look up every few words. Meet the eyes of a specific man in the audience, smile at him like the reading is all for him. Back to the book. Rinse and repeat. He floats somewhere above his own body, telepathy spreading loose and uncontrolled through the hall like a cloud of spilled ink. Lust, predictably, is the dominant emotion, colouring the room in a humid and stifling haze. Charles lets it wash over him. Through him. It’s been a long time since it had any effect on him.

But something is different tonight. There’s someone – someone’s mind – a sort of unnameable brightness, an _otherness…_

A man in the second row. He lounges in his seat, perfectly at ease, as if the performance is nothing more remarkable than a night at the cinema. Charles meets his eyes. The man had introduced himself to Uncle as Dr. Klaus Schmidt, but inside his head he thinks of himself as Sebastian Shaw – or perhaps that’s another alias internalised for so long and so often that it had become the truth.

Sebastian Shaw smiles at him. It is an inviting thing, a lingering look of appreciation, a touch of flirtation. Power and confidence radiate from him.

But he has Uncle’s eyes, cold and calculating.

Charles smiles back at him, serene, and continues his reading.

***

The second time he meets Sebastian Shaw is in his bedroom.

Charles had been in his study paging through the newest volume of _Human Genetics_ when he felt the approach of two minds. Uncle’s he automatically walls off, but the presence next to him – Shaw, Schmidt, whatever he calls himself – is like a beacon. Intrigued, Charles gets to his feet and returns to his bedroom, ready to play the role of the gracious host.

The door swings open and Uncle steps in, eyes sweeping dismissively around the room. Usually Uncle would summon him down to the lab for this sort of business, but sometimes he enjoys invading Charles’ rooms, an unsubtle reminder that Charles has no right to privacy.

Charles is long past the point of minding. He gives Uncle a cordial smile, impeccably polite. “Good evening, sir. And who might your guest be?”

Uncle grunts. “It’s your new doctor. Wants to give you a check-up tonight. No need to play stupid, he knows all about your mind tricks.”

“Ah.” Charles’ smile doesn’t flicker as he inclines his head at Shaw. “In that case, how do you do, Dr. Schmidt? Charles Xavier, at your service, but I think you knew that already.”

“Pleasure,” Shaw says, and the interest that lights up his mind is real. “I’ve read all of your work, Lord Xavier. You have some _fascinating_ ideas that I would love to take further.”

His work – currently, a collection of review papers summarising the state of knowledge in genetics and related disciplines, with suggestions for future experiments carefully crafted to nudge the field in directions that are less _inhumane._ Charles supposes he should be grateful that Uncle permits him to publish under his own name and keep up correspondence with other scholars. The reception to his work has been positive, but Charles hadn’t expected Shaw, of all people, to mention it out of the blue. Although momentarily thrown by Shaw’s compliment, Charles recovers easily. “That’s very kind of you to say so. My position limits the type of work I can engage in, but I try to make the best of the resources available to me.”

Shaw makes an approving noise. “Someone must keep up with the vast body of knowledge at our disposal, separate the wheat from the chaff. You do good work.”

Behind Shaw, Uncle clears his throat impatiently. “You two done?”

“Yes, we should get on with things, hmm?” Shaw motions him closer, so Charles goes. Already, he’s starting to drift from his body again. In the kitchens, one of the cooks is gritting her teeth against the pain as she runs cold water over the angry red burn that covers her arm. Someone is out working late on the grounds, cursing the moonless sky. And further down the road, closer to the town–

“Strip,” Shaw says, so Charles does.

“Stand there,” Shaw says, so Charles moves where he directs, and Shaw takes measurements for his height and weight, for the circumference of his waist. Distantly, he can hear the rustle of sheets as Uncle settles down on his bed, watching his naked body with undisguised greed.

“Stay still,” Shaw says, so Charles stands there, arms straight and palms resting against his thighs. Shaw circles him, inspecting every inch of his skin: first with his eyes, then with his gloved hands, feeling at every minor blemish, every mole and freckle. For some moments Shaw lingers over the scars etched on his back from the time Uncle decided a live demonstration of _The Whippingham Papers_ was necessary – _You should feel right at home, what with that charming English public school upbringing of yours_ , Uncle had said, and the audience had laughed.

Charles closes his eyes. His head is empty and quiet.

“Open your mouth,” Shaw says, so Charles does, and Shaw checks his teeth and gums like he’s an animal for purchase. Not even ten minutes ago, this very same man had spoken to him like an equal. It seems so far away now.

“Spread your legs.”

_It’s all you’re good for._

Impossible to tell where the thought had come from. Perhaps it’s from himself. Charles allows his telepathy to carry him further away.

Hands, gloved by impersonal latex, squeeze his testicles, checking for lumps and abnormalities. Charles allows the sensations to wash over him. Through him. He is not affected.

His body is not his own.

He does not care what happens to it.

A slick noise penetrates the air as Shaw lubricates his fingers. Uncle’s interest in the proceedings batter down on him in a red tide. Charles’ eyes fix on the window, the yew tree a constant reminder in the distance.

“Bend,” Shaw says, so Charles does, bending at the waist. Shaw braces one hand against his hip. One lubricated finger presses gently past his sphincter, calm and professional, and since Charles’ body doesn’t fight it the finger pushes deeper into his rectum. Shaw palpates the delicate internal tissues, feeling out the prostate gland from apex to base. It’s all over within a few minutes, and after that Charles silently dresses himself as Shaw and Uncle talk.

“I’ll run more tests later, for blood pressure and the like, but at this point in time it doesn’t seem like there’s anything physically wrong with him – aside from the migraines, he’s perfectly healthy. It’s going to be hard to find out what exactly is causing the migraines, since we can’t very well cut his head open and take a look inside… Could be the telepathy, could be something else, we’re starting to see some proof that some people just _get_ migraines for no real reason…”

Charles is vaguely curious about their discussion, but it’s hard to focus when he’s so far away, curled up in the mind of one of the townswomen as she gives her husband a perfunctory kiss goodnight.

“…his extensive medical records, I’ll try him out on a new medication regime,” Shaw is saying. Charles struggles to pull himself back to the present, knowing it’s important, but he’s drifting off again when he hears–

_Lord Xavier. Charles._

Charles blinks. That voice – it’s Shaw, a telepathic communication shining with the same brightness that glows in Shaw’s mind. It’s not the first time someone has communicated with him telepathically – it’s a regular part of Uncle’s tests – but never before had he heard a mental voice this clear.

He does not reply. It’s one of his self-imposed rules.

Shaw and Uncle continue their conversation, but Shaw’s voice continues to twine around his mind, intimate as a lover. _Come meet me tonight, Charles. We have so much to discuss. Surely, you’ve noticed by now that my mind is different._

_Superior._

_I’m like you._

_Tonight, Charles. By that tree at the edge of your property. Meet me there._

***

He does not trust Shaw.

He is fascinated by Shaw.

These are not mutually exclusive things.

Left to his own devices once more, Charles retreats to the study. Without hesitation, he reaches out, creeping on silent cat’s feet into Shaw’s mind.

Shaw is – _complex._ Mutant, as he had implied, and old, far older than he looks, a veritable treasure trove of experience, his mind humming with that beautiful energy that had drawn Charles to him in the first place. He shines bright with a fire and passion Charles had long ago lost.

But for all Shaw’s disdain of humans, the deeper layers of his mind are remarkably similar to Uncle’s. They have the same greed, the same drive to take things – _people_ – apart in the name of scientific inquiry, the same potential for petty cruelties…

Charles would like nothing better than to never enter Shaw’s mind again, but he blocks out his discomfort, focusing on the task at hand. He needs more information.

It’s rare that he digs through memories, a light-fingered thief snatching at precious moments he has no right to. Most of the time, Charles is content to be a silent observer, drifting aimlessly in the present. But too often he loses himself entirely and reaches deeper than he means to.

He does it on purpose now, sinking into Shaw’s mind until he _is_ Shaw, squinting through the darkness of the grounds as he walks to the yew tree for their rendezvous. His mind is a buzz of plans and low-grade irritation – _Marko has ruined the Xavier boy what a waste of power waste of potential I should kill him for it –_ and Charles carefully wills Shaw’s thoughts to dwell on the subject of Uncle, spinning out into a web of associations and memories.

Years and years of partnership, he and Marko and Trask; after all, the humans are useful pawns and scapegoats and of course neither of them know he is a mutant and what he has planned for them eventually…

He is not a traitor to his own kind. He is never the one to hunt down and capture fellow mutants. But once they’ve fallen into human hands – well, he’s really no different from a parent who allows his children to stumble and fall, to make their own mistakes and _grow._ Besides, he always rescues them in the end, after they’ve had a chance to learn their lessons. So what if it takes a few years?

Anger, hate, fear – they are the best teachers. They are the source of power.

Charles shudders at that familiar philosophy, heard so many times before from Uncle’s mouth, from his books. The urge to flee almost overpowers him, but Charles stays put and continues to eavesdrop on Shaw’s growing ire – _where is that damn boy, gonna be late for my meeting with Azazel, fucking nobles, he’s worse than Emma, Christ I need to make some time to go through things with Emma, we need to figure out how to deal with little Erik Lehnsherr…_

Vitriol. Disappointment. Fatherly pride. Murderous intent, blood-red. Whoever Erik Lehnsherr is, he inspires a tangled web of emotion so deep and powerful that it sends Charles reeling.

Before Charles can stop himself, his power threads carefully through Shaw’s mind, plucking out more memories:

A tall, lean figure pacing in front of a small crowd of mutants, his movements as economical and graceful – _deadly –_ as a shark on the hunt. “My brothers and sisters…” Erik says, and the memory is both blurred and vibrant, a multitude of similar scenes overlayed on top of each other. Shaw’s paternal fondness is an undercurrent through it all. _My little firebrand,_ he thinks, proud. Possessive. Erik is _his._ His finest creation.

Shaw’s mind flicks to memories of Erik as he was, a sweet little boy. Not even three years spent under the scalpels of human scientists had fully snuffed out the innate sweetness and honesty in Erik’s nature. The first few months after his rescue Erik had been a persistent shadow, wary as a kicked dog and just as starved for attention. Oh, little Erik tried to put up a strong front, bristling and snapping at everything, but the slightest bit of praise had Erik hanging onto his every word. Shaw loves them the most at this age; young minds are so malleable, so easy to mould in the _proper_ way. It’s no difficult task to feed Erik’s fear and hatred, shaping him into a weapon against the humans as easily as Erik shapes his metal.

His only regret is that he hadn’t taken a firmer hand with Erik. “Brothers and sisters,” Erik says once again, in another time, in another memory. Shaw had written the speech for Erik, but Erik’s next words come as a shock of cold water: “Today, we free our captive brothers and sisters! We’ll bring down the complex around the humans, we’ll unleash a devastation they’ll never forget!”

“That wasn’t what we had agreed on!” Shaw snarls, an indeterminable amount of time later, and this memory is blazing red with fury. How _dare_ he; he had raised Erik like a son, he had made him into everything he is now, he had given him _everything._ “This was supposed to be a reconnaissance mission only!”

“We know they have mutants held captive there, how much more reconnaissance do we need?” Erik snarls back, and by God, Shaw’s hand _itches._ He wants to slap Erik. He wants to choke him, to hear the splintering of bone and the bloody rip of torn flesh.

“No,” Erik continues. The air around him hums, crackling with magnetic energy. “I won’t let the humans experiment on them one second longer.” His eyes narrow. “And I can’t believe you’re even thinking about leaving them there. What the fuck, Sebastian?”

If only he knew.

Shaw’s memories jump again, and these are worn with time and distance. A rumour, heard from a friend of a friend, about a child patient who brings horrendously bad luck. Needles bend and dull around him. Instruments, always the metal ones, suddenly warp. Pipes leak, wiring falls apart.

Shaw is not a traitor to his own kind. He would never hunt fellow mutants. But this is more like – like sending someone to be trained. A few words in the right ears, and little Erik Lehnsherr is suddenly an orphan, another missing child for human authorities to forget about. It’s all very laughably easy. The humans all think Shaw – the clever, ever-reliable Dr. Schmidt – is one of them, and Shaw reads all the reports they send him on little Erik Lehnsherr, charting the jumps in Erik’s power until he’s grown enough to be useful. Then it’s a simple matter of rescuing him, Erik’s own personal knight in shining armour. He kills little Erik’s tormentors right before the boy’s wide, terrified eyes, relishing the fear and betrayal on the faces of the human scientists even as he gathers Erik into his arms, shushing and soothing him. _Mine._

_Mine._

Unsettled, Charles pulls back from Shaw’s mind, but not far enough. All those memories of Erik he had roused had awakened something dark in Shaw; Shaw’s mind whirls round and round in furious circles – _need to deal with him he’s too popular with the young recruits, how dare he how dare he, he’s going to ruin all my plans, he’s mine, he’s taking what’s mine…_

Charles is no stranger to thoughts of violence, but Shaw’s fevered imaginings are more visceral than most. He’s murdered before. Erik Lehnsherr will only be another name in a long, long list.

 _God._ Charles pulls back completely. He’s done it again, gone where he had no right to and fucked everything up in the process. Would Shaw be so homicidally angry if Charles hadn’t pulled up all those memories?

He needs to fix this. The thought of meeting Shaw, alone, fills Charles with apprehension, but he gets to his feet anyway. Shaw is no threat to him, Charles reminds himself. He’s already been dismissed as a weakling, and while Shaw’s mind may be a shifting mess of hypocrisy and double standards, Charles has the impression that Shaw is genuine in his desire to avoid harming other mutants – except, of course, when his power is threatened.

The grounds are chilly, and it’s colder still under the shadow of the yew tree. Shaw’s smile is a knife in the dark. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t come,” he drawls.

Charles smiles in return, perfectly serene, perfectly bland. “Did you need something from me?”

“I’m here to make you an offer.”

“Oh?”

For all his outward calm, inside, Charles is scrabbling for the right thing to say. Uncle’s friends are easy, but Shaw – Shaw is a fellow _mutant._ Kin. The textures of his mind are rich and vibrant, with an extra depth to his perception of the world that no human can hope to match.

And yet.

He’s seen into Shaw’s mind. He’s felt the clinical touch of his hands. The man in front of him is not – will never be – someone worthy of his trust.

“Let’s hear it,” Charles says, covering his uncertainties with a layer of cultured calm.

Shaw’s eyes sweep over him, an examination Charles is intimately familiar with. “You know, Charles, when I first heard of you, I thought you’d be an empty-headed little boy. You’ve been alone all this time, haven’t you?” He crowds closer, into Charles’ space, reaching out to grasp his chin, but Charles firmly pushes his hand away. Shaw smiles. “See? I thought I knew your type. I thought you’d latched onto the first mutant you see. The first person to give you a kind word. The first person to treat you like…an _adult._ ”

There’s no mistaking the heat in Shaw’s gaze, the desire sparking in his mind, and Charles feel his throat close and his chest go tight. He forcibly pushes it all back and meets Shaw’s eyes evenly. “Clearly you thought wrong.”

“Clearly I did. Marko’s already ruined you for everyone else. So!” Shaw rubs his hands together. “Like I said, I’ll cut you a deal instead. Do you know why I’m here?”

Charles _could_ look, but he doesn’t have to. Shaw is all but shoving the answer at him. “You want many things, but primarily, you’re after my fortune.”

“That’s right. We both have something the other wants. You have your money, and I… Well. I have a key.”

“A key,” Charles echoes, sceptical.

“You want to get out of here, don’t you? Be with your own kind?” Shaw’s hand rests heavily on his shoulder, and this time, Charles doesn’t push it away. The night is still and silent save for the rustle of the yew’s branches. He’s so very tired. “Of course you do. I know all about you, you know. I know how Marko has been controlling you. _Leashing_ you.” Fingers tap at Charles’ temple. “Let me set you free.”

Charles shakes his head minutely. “Uncle didn’t…” It was nothing Charles didn’t consent to. A mutual promise. A deal, just like the one Shaw is trying to make with him.

Shaw tuts. “He has you brainwashed. You sure you’re the telepath here?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well, think about it. I could help you be so much _more._ I lead a whole group of our kind, you’re more than welcome there. I’ve got a telepath with me. You want training? She’ll help you unlock your potential. You’re never going to get anywhere with a human like your uncle.” Shaw spits the last word like a curse, lips curling into a sneer.

Charles should want those things. He thinks he _does_ want those things, in some deep and buried part of him, but it’s an abstract desire, a yearning for something impossible. Even now, the mansion looms on the periphery of his vision like an unavoidable shadow, and the branches of the yew overhead blot out the light of the moon.

He thinks about a rope of silk. A memory of desperation; choking.

He cannot go on like this.

“What do you want in exchange?” Charles finally asks. “Money?”

“Not even all your fortune,” Shaw says, indulgent. Triumph radiates from his mind. “I’m a fair man; we’ll split it. Run away with me, Charles. When the time is right. Do we have a deal?”

Uncle had said those same words to him a lifetime ago. Charles is no braver now than he is back then, but he likes to think he’s grown wiser. For all his seductive promises, Shaw is no true ally – just look at what he plans to do to that man, Erik Lehnsherr, his own faithful right hand.

“Yes,” Charles says quietly. His mind is racing with the beginnings of a plan. “But you must realize running away isn’t enough. Uncle will never stop hunting me.” His heartbeat pounds painfully against his chest. Charles licks his suddenly dry lips. “We need to…”

He falters, breaking off. The choking pressure against his ribcage is growing too much to bear. _Get a hold of yourself –_ he doesn’t _understand_ it, it makes no sense that the mere mention of Uncle should send him dizzy and shaking with fear and adrenaline…

Shaw watches him, pity in his eyes, sneering disgust in his mind. “You’re that afraid of Kurt Marko? He won’t get his hands on you, I promise.”

“You can’t,” Charles stops, swallows, tries again. “You can’t stop him.”

“Oh, I won’t be the one stopping him,” Shaw says. Smugness lights his mind again, and Charles picks up the image of a glittering vial. “I’d be a poor spouse if I don’t get you a wedding present, hmm? So, here’s my promise to you. I have in my possession a vial of opium, highly concentrated. Drink it all and you’ll go to sleep and never wake up again. Put it in your drink, put it in his, I don’t care. Either way, you’ll never end up in his hands again.”

Charles can tell from the tenor of his thoughts that this is all a game to Shaw. Shaw isn’t in the business of killing a fellow mutant unless he’s defied, but he’s not above games of petty manipulations. All along, he’s been expecting Charles to take the opium. To take the painless, peaceful way out, leaving Shaw with the entire fortune.

The worst part is – it’s tempting. It’s what he had wanted for all these years.

He still wants it.

No. _Focus._ He has a plan. He has a responsibility. _Erik._ He won’t let Shaw kill him. “Let’s hope it won’t come to that, shall we. I’d much rather never see Uncle again.”

“You’re the one who said he’ll never stop hunting you.”

“He won’t.” Again, his throat closes up, but this time Charles presses on grimly. “Unless he thinks I’m dead.”

That gets Shaw’s attention. “Oh?”

“After…” And it feels so _strange_ to think of the future, to know that something may break up the grey haze of his days, “After the wedding, after you have a claim to the fortune, I want to fake my death. I need a body for that.”

It takes no prompting at all for Shaw’s thoughts to immediately flick to Erik Lehsnherr. “I can arrange that.”

Charles nods. “Find me a manservant,” he says. He needs some way to get close to Erik somehow, to warn him. “My current servants all report to my uncle. Find me someone honest. Someone straightforward. We’ll use him as my body double after the marriage. There’s no need to have more people involved than needed.”

It’s not the most solid plan. Already, Shaw has his doubts – he’s loathe to let Erik anywhere near Charles – but Charles _wants_ this to work so badly that he’s reaching out before he can stop himself, bending his self-imposed rules. _Let Erik stay here a few weeks, a few months, out of the way,_ he whispers into Shaw’s mind, using Shaw’s own voice. He picks out the threads of suspicion in Shaw’s psyche, smoothing them away into calm, _nothing to worry about, the Xavier boy is too cowardly to do anything, Erik will never listen to someone he thinks is a weak, sickly human…_

It’s been many years since Charles has allowed himself to want something so badly. He can’t do it in good conscience, not when he knows his thoughts are poison, a miasma seeping into the skulls of good, innocent people and altering them to suit his whims.

But Charles lets go now. _Accept it. Accept it. Accept the plan._

After a second, an eternity, Shaw nods.

“You know,” Shaw says, “when I saw you in your room earlier, I thought Marko crushed the spirit out of you already. You were so cold, like a perfect little doll.”

“Is there a point to this?”

“Oh, just that you’re even colder than I expected.” Shaw chuckles. “Didn’t think you had it in you to plan a murder in cold blood. But I like it. I’ll be seeing you, Charles.”

Shaw walks away, leaving him alone. Charles looks at the mansion, then at the height and breadth of the yew tree, and he rests his hands against the bark. It’s cold and rough against his skin; dead. His chest feels unaccountably tight again.

He’s only ever wanted to do the right thing.

He just wishes he knows what that is.

 

**8.**

Leather straps around his wrists, holding him down. Something is being forced into his mouth, prying his lips apart; he tries to bite down, but he can’t, he’s trapped, he can’t do _anything_ – One of the whitecoats looms over him, steel glinting in its hands; he paws clumsily at the metal, but it won’t respond, why isn’t it responding? _Go away,_ he wants to shout, but he can’t form words. All he can do is shout in pain and fear and _anger–_

–A cry shatters the silence. His own cry, jolting himself awake. Charles sits up and rubs the back of his hand down his face.

He’s in his bedroom. It was only a dream-memory.

…But it did not belong wholly to him. There’s another mind nearby, fumbling and cursing in the dark, startled awake by Charles’ cry.

_Erik._

The memory was his. And yet – it’s so familiar, Charles’ memories and Erik’s memories mingling, overlapping, the same pain, the same fear. _I understand you,_ Charles says silently, although he doesn’t dare reach out. _I’ve felt what you’ve felt. You’re not alone._

Charles takes a slow breath, smoothing away the sudden welling of emotion into quiet serenity, his gaze drifting to the window. He has a role to play. Not much time now; first impressions are everything, and he’s more determined than ever before to charm Erik over to his side. Wryly, Charles thinks he may be more of a romantic than he had realized. His foray into Erik’s dreams had been brief and unintentional, but it had sparked something, a feeling of _connection…_

No time now. Focus.

Right on cue, the door slams open. Charles’ breath catches silently in his throat.

None of Shaw’s memories had prepared him for the way Erik’s mind _blazes._

***

The thing is, Charles has lived his entire life playing different roles: the bright young scholar, the pliant test subject, the enigmatic reader soft-voiced and alluring. He knows how to charm and flatter and entice. Sometimes he even enjoys it.

Being with Erik should be no different. Even setting aside his telepathy, Charles has _eyes;_ he’s seen the way Erik’s gaze lingers on him when he thinks Charles isn’t looking. Erik is attracted to him and Charles subtly encourages it, using all the tricks Uncle had taught him, paired with the things he had picked up on his own through the books. He takes every opportunity he can to bite his lips red and flush, to let his tongue dart teasingly out, and from beneath his lashes he watches as Erik’s pupils dilate.

Yet Erik never takes advantage. Erik is always so very proper, so _careful._ His mind is a steel fortress lined with razor barbs of pain and anger, but underneath it all is a brightness Charles is irresistibly drawn to. Can he be blamed? He’s never met anyone who burns with such intensity as Erik does. He’s never met anyone with such a fierce desire to protect. _Never again,_ Erik’s thoughts rumble. He will never allow another mutant to suffer as he had.

Sometimes Charles loves him for it. Sometimes he imagines Erik as his protector, fearsome and implacable.

Sometimes Charles is bitter, resentful, ashamed. Erik had gone through so much, but he’s not broken like Charles is.

 _No depth to him at all,_ Shaw says of Erik, and Charles wonders how he could be so wrong when he had practically raised Erik. But Charles bites his tongue. He needs to pick his battles wisely; he can’t let Shaw suspect that he sees Erik as anything more than a stepping stone to his freedom.

Neither can he let Erik suspect that he’s working with Shaw, or the fate Shaw has planned for him. Erik is a good man – Charles believes that with all his heart. He is a better man than Charles is. But he is also such an uncompromising man, the planes of his mind beautifully harsh and stark. He believes in fairness. Justice.

Vengeance.

If Erik learns the truth, it’ll be the end of Charles’ plans to quietly disappear, and Charles is selfish enough that he won’t risk it.

Hence his current efforts to temper Erik’s fire. Erik is determined to see him as a spoiled, selfish noble, so Charles does his best to be the opposite of that, freely offering the only things about him that have any value: his books, his knowledge, his body. Erik wants to pick a fight, so Charles meets his anger with serenity instead, willingly exposing his weaknesses – _some_ of his weaknesses – in hopes of cultivating trust.

It works. He thinks. Erik thaws to him, quicker than he had anticipated, and for a few guilty days Charles wonders if he has been influencing Erik unintentionally, the noxious, uncontrollable poison of his telepathy rooting around Erik’s skull to destroy the brilliant spark of individuality inside. But when he reaches out, ever so carefully – because Charles can never leave things well enough alone – he finds the architecture of Erik’s mind unchanged. He thinks.

(The terrifying thing about his power is that it’s so insidious, he can never be entirely sure. Charles spends most of that day laid up in bed with a migraine, heartsick, wishing he could just make his telepathy – _stop._ If he tries hard enough, can he control his own mind? Can he shut down his own physiological systems, one by one?

Or perhaps that’s a philosophical question. After all, every human has control over their own mind. He wonders what Erik would think.)

“I didn’t think it was possible, but your migraines seem to be growing more frequent, even with my medication,” Shaw observes during one of their sessions. He pushes a cup of hibiscus tea at Charles, dark and red.

“It’s not so surprising. They’re exacerbated by strong emotions. Stress.”

Shaw chuckles. “Stress? What do you have to be stressed about? All you have to do is make doe eyes at me while Erik is watching and I’ll take care of the rest. Unless he’s starting to suspect?”

“No, you did an excellent job picking him. He really is quite honest. Too honest for suspicion.”

And Charles really should shut his mouth and leave it there, but he holds the belief that everyone _,_ including Erik, including Shaw, including himself, _everyone_ is capable of making the right choices. Of choosing the better path. It’s a belief he had cultivated with grim determination through the years, although perhaps it’s less a belief and more a survival mechanism. After all, as he had told Erik, if he can’t have hope then what else does he have left?

So he says: “I’m surprised you’re willing to use him like this. His power is remarkable, and he’s completely devoted to your cause. You’re sure you want to go through with this?”

Shaw’s eyes narrow, pinning him in place, and Charles instantly knows he’s mis-stepped. “Sounds like you’re the one having second thoughts.” Shaw’s tone is deceptively pleasant. “Don’t forget why Erik’s here. He thinks he’s helping me con you out of your fortune, and after that, he’s happy to look the other way while I snap your neck. You think he’s a good man? You want to spare him?”

Charles flinches as Shaw forces a barrage of images at him, each bloodier than the last. The vivid splash of red against concrete. Steel, groaning, _screaming._ The humans have been subdued already, they could easily take the mutant captives and escape, but the Erik in Shaw’s memories is raising one hand high up, holding It aloft. _Don’t do this!_ Charles shouts instinctively, but the past cannot be changed; Erik’s hand closes into a fist, white-knuckled, and metal crumples everywhere. Shaw’s memories linger especially lovingly over the sounds that echo through the compound, the noises of agony, the quiet pleas for help, for mercy.

The silence.

It’s tempting to slam up his mental walls, but Charles forces himself to watch every single memory Shaw is throwing at him. He needs to learn all of Erik, the darkness and the light both.

“Still think he deserves your pity?” Shaw sneers. He tosses one last image at Charles, of a bloodied, twitching hand, a human still alive under a pile of rubble, desperately reaching out. The Erik in his memory strides past without a backwards glance. “He’d do the same thing to you right now if I ask him to, because he thinks you’re a worthless human. He’ll never value you for anything except your mutation.”

 _Only because that’s what you’ve taught him,_ but that isn’t entirely fair. Erik is an adult who knows his own mind. Some part of him genuinely agrees with Shaw’s philosophy.

But Charles doesn’t intend to give up. He’s seen so much good in Erik, so much light. He’s seen his longing for a family and he’s personally witnessed evidence of a nurturing spark in Erik. Erik’s calloused hands have always been careful and gentle as they tend to Charles, even though according to Shaw he’s nothing but a worthless human. He thinks about Erik fussing over him after one of his migraines in his gruff, understated way, and Charles feels his chest constrict.

Some part of Erik wants peace, he knows it. He’ll do anything to give it to Erik.

He meets Shaw’s contemptuous gaze. “It’s no worse than what you and I are planning to do to him,” Charles says evenly.

“You calling this whole thing off?”

“No. I wish – no.” He’s shown too much of his hand. “I’m sorry, I’m just not very good with violence.”

Shaw watches him with open suspicion. Charles hesitates, but only for a second. Then he reaches out.

_Forget._

***

Another day, the curtains drawn, lying in bed, trying not to move or even breathe, pain stabbing dully through his skull. _So bloody useless, laid up in bed all the time,_ his thoughts snarl, and Charles tries to bury the wave of self-loathing that sweeps through him, knowing that any emotion will only worsen the migraine.

In times like these, he allows his telepathy to drift, leaving his body a mindless, insensate mass on the bed. Today, however, he’s trapped in his own head, thoughts chasing each other around in endless circles.

_You’ll need to tell him the truth soon._

_He’ll hate me._

_It’s what you deserve._

_That’s hardly fair; he’s lying to me too. We’re both lying to each other._

_Not to the same degree! He’s an honest man by nature. You, you’ve never once shown him your true face._

But that’s not entirely right. He had been playing a role in the beginning, yes, trying to lure Erik in, but even then… It hadn’t entirely been a lie. And it certainly isn’t one now, when Charles has only been acting in the ways that come to him most naturally instead of tailoring every action to draw Erik deeper into his web. There’s nothing at all false about their light banter over breakfast and dinner. He certainly isn’t holding back during their nightly debates. If anything, Charles has been more honest than he means to be, unable to stop himself from slipping little hints that things in the mansion – things about himself – are not _quite right._ He feels like he’s simultaneously torn between pleading for Erik to notice something is wrong and covering Erik’s eyes with his hands so Erik can leave the mansion never, ever realizing the truth behind all that time he spends with Uncle.

The only lies he’s telling now are ones of omission.

But they’re still lies.

_It won’t make a difference to him. He’s been hurt by so many people already, why should he forgive you?_

As if summoned by his thoughts (please, God, _no,_ he doesn’t want to tarnish Erik’s beautiful mind), there’s a light rap on his bedroom door, and Erik lets himself in quietly.

One of the things Charles loves most about Erik is that he doesn’t hover. He can feel concern radiating from Erik’s mind, but Erik knows noise and movement make the migraine worse, so he’s quiet and self-contained as he leaves more water by Charles’ bedside along with a small plate of nuts and crackers, foods which help with Charles’ nausea – he wonders where Erik had learnt that.

“You need anything?” Erik asks, very softly.

Charles musters a wan smile, even though the small movement of turning his head to look at Erik sends pain stabbing through his temples. “No, thank you.”

And that’s it. Erik doesn’t fret over Charles, allowing him to keep what little dignity he has left. He leaves as quietly as he had come, and Charles closes his eyes again.

How can Shaw be so wrong about Erik? Erik is so loyal to him, so determined to repay his perceived debt, yet Shaw’s only thoughts are of how best to use Erik and how best to dispose of him now that Erik is starting to become a threat to his power.

Charles wants so badly to save Erik.

And he can do it right now if he really wanted to. Erik can save himself. All he has to do is tell Erik the truth.

The thought of confessing makes his heart clench, pulse skyrocketing. Pain flares, so bad that Charles almost clutches his head, but he forces himself to stay motionless.

He’s too weak; he can’t do it. Erik will be furious. He’ll be a force of nature unleashed on the mansion, trampling all of Charles’ plans into rubble. Charles has only _just_ started thinking about what life outside the mansion might be like. How it would feel to meet other mutants, to have _Erik_ introducing him to other mutants. Erik had brought him hope, but Charles can see it all fading away before his eyes, the dark branches of the yew tree caging him in once more.

No. Erik had brought him hope. Charles is not ready to let go of it yet. There must be some way they can stay together.

***

The problem, as Charles sees it, is that even though they’re growing closer by the day, they’re still not quite close enough. Erik doesn’t trust him with the truth, and in a way, neither does Charles. They need more time to learn each other.

Or, maybe they need a catalyst to break down some of the walls between them.

It’s Shaw who ends up providing that push. The man had been demanding they do more and more to convince Erik they’re falling in love and ready to elope, and finally Charles – desperate for something to change – acquiesces to unbuttoning his shirt and clambering onto the table as he feels Erik’s mind approach. Shaw stoops over him, and Charles can’t control the panicked spike of his pulse, the awareness of his vulnerability as Shaw’s hand glides over his bared chest. His skin crawls.

He has never been more relieved when Erik interrupts.

And that relief turns to joy, to _wonder,_ when Erik finally, finally trusts him with his mutation. Even hours later, Charles’ eyes grow wet with emotion when he remembers that moment. The spark of hope he’s been nursing grows, still fragile, but the possibility of peace seems less remote than before.

With that first barrier down, more follow swiftly. Charles longs to ask Erik endless questions about his power, but he’s spent so much time being poked and prodded at by Uncle and his associates that he’d never do the same to another person. Each time Erik trusts him enough to demonstrate his powers is a precious gift, and Charles tucks each and every instance away as a cherished moment.

Gradually, Erik grows more at ease. He never spends much time discussing his own mutation, but sometimes he slips in little comments: _No need to keep looking for your pen, I can sense it rolled behind your desk there_ or _All this picking up after you almost makes me wish I had telekinesis instead, I know a girl with that power._

One night, Charles’ caution slips for just a second and he asks: “Do you know many other mutants, Erik?”

Erik instantly freezes, but then he jerks his head in a nod. “I worked with an all-mutant group. We had all sorts there.”

Charles smiles. Gently now, mustn’t make Erik clam up again. “You must miss them terribly. I can’t imagine this mansion has much to offer in comparison.”

He’s been dropping openings here and there lately, giving Erik opportunities to admit to the true purpose behind his presence at the mansion. But Erik’s loyalty to Shaw – or perhaps his distrust of humans – holds too strong. Charles takes it as a sign that they aren’t ready for the whole truth yet.

Erik crosses his long legs, still cautious, but not entirely unwilling to talk. “They’re getting along fine without me.”

“That has nothing at all to do with the question of whether or not you miss them,” Charles says, gently chiding.

“We weren’t exactly friends.”

“But you must still care for them.”

“…I do.” Erik looks a little surprised at his own admission, his mouth quirking. “You’d enjoy meeting them.”

It’s not the first time Erik has raised the subject of life outside the mansion. And, like every time before that, Charles bites his lip and tries to calm the nervous jump of his pulse. “If they’re anything like you, I certainly will.”

“Some of them are. But we’ve got a few kids with us too. You’d get along, you could hold story time with them with all that poetry of yours.”

Erik’s eyes bore into his. He’s not the only one probing for answers here. Charles meets his eyes levelly, not hiding the quiet sorrow he feels.

Someday soon, all their secrets will come spilling out into the open and perhaps that will be the end of everything. But for now, he’ll cherish the time they have left to them.

“Tell me more about the children?”

Erik’s expression softens. “They’re wonderful. Strong, tough. There’s a little girl we rescued, right before I had to leave…”

The pictures Erik paints for him are vivid: mutant children, just coming into their powers, getting into scraps and mischief like any other children do. It’s clear that Erik loves them, but there’s a bittersweet flavour to his thoughts, a resigned belief that these children will grow up to be soldiers.

Charles would happily listen to Erik talking all night, but Erik is ever mindful of the time, and before long he’s chivvying him to bed. “Get some sleep, Charles, you know you get migraines if you stay up too late.”

“I wouldn’t mind, it seems like a fair trade. I quite enjoy listening to you talk.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Erik’s mind sparks with fondness. Charles firmly shoves down the urge to step closer and kiss the teasing smirk off his face.

“Maybe just a little. Help me get ready for bed?”

“Yes, _sir._ ”

Erik helps him with his clothes as he always does. Charles stands still under his hands as Erik’s clever fingers undo button after button, brisk but gentle as he strips Charles of the layers that cover him. He’s nothing like Uncle. The thrum of his mind is all business with just a touch of appreciation, his desire buried deep.

Charles draws in a shallow breath. He knows the dangers of his powers, but Erik…

He loves watching Erik move. He loves watching the play of expressions across Erik’s face, from the dry little smiles to the looks of intense focus. He loves watching the motions of Erik’s long, deft fingers, whether they’re busy undressing him or motioning some metal implement over to his side, flexing his power as easily as breathing.

Erik’s love of his own mutation and his high regard for his fellow mutants is infectious. Inspiring.

For the first time, Charles allows himself to _want._

***

The next day he wakes with his heart in his throat and the panicked realization they’re fast running out of time.

***

The corset is constricting, but it’s not the worst thing he’s ever worn, and it’s certainly no worse than the attention of the men battering down on him as he sits there and reads with the painted red smile on his face and his heart racing in fear.

What’s wrong with him tonight? His telepathy – he can’t maintain the distance he needs tonight, can’t maintain his focus.

_My body is not my own._

Uncle is watching.

 _My body is not my own._ He sees himself being shoved down onto his knees, a hand fisting in his hair, his breeches yanked down. Charles blinks. No, he’s still at the lectern – that was just, just someone’s fantasies, someone in the fourth row, there…

Uncle is watching. His heavy brow is drawn together in a frown. Charles has paused on his current line for a beat too long.

 _My body is not my own._ He shouldn’t care about any of this. He’s been subject to so much worse before.

God. What would Erik think?

Uncle watches. Charles fights to keep the tremble from his voice.

Hands groping at his chest. A heavy body on top of his. His own voice, wailing like a child, crying and pleading, until someone draws a knife across his throat in a gush of red.

He keeps reading.

Eventually, he manages to drift away, and it becomes easier after that.

***

Afterwards, Uncle says: “We’ll talk after I return from my business trip.”

Charles bows his head. Uncle doesn’t know. There will be no _after._ He’ll be gone by then, one way or the other.

The guests had dispersed already. All that’s left is for Charles to make his way back to his rooms, back to where Erik and their tangle of secrets and fragile hopes wait.

Instead, his feet carry him towards the yew tree. He lifts his head to face the sky, the wind ruffling through his hair. Overhead the moon is large and bright, beckoning to him through the gaps in the yew’s branches, whispering sweetly of freedom.

Tonight was the last time he had to read for Uncle. One way or the other.

 

**9.**

“I have something to tell you.” In the warmth of their shared bed, Erik’s expression is both pained and grimly resolved. “Shaw and I, Dr. Schmidt and I, we’ve been working together all along. He’s planning to kill you.”

Charles’ heart soars, whether in perfect joy or perfect fear, he doesn’t know. This is it. Erik has given him the truth.

“We–” Erik begins, but Charles cradles his face, pulling him in for a swift kiss. It may be their last. He focuses on the feeling of Erik’s lips, his skin, the brightness of his mind, searing it all into his memory. Whatever happens, he will cherish this.

“I know,” Charles says. “There’s also something I have to tell you.”


	3. part iii

**1.  
**“Erik,” Charles says, and although the look on his face is no less sincere than before, Erik knows him well enough by now to realizes that Charles is deeply afraid. Without having to think, Erik reaches out to grasp Charles’ wrist, grounding him.

Charles exhales, just a touch shaky, and Erik longs to kiss the lines of worry from his face, but it’s a foolish, fleeting urge. Charles can’t possibly want his touch. Not after the depths of Erik’s betrayal.

“No,” Charles murmurs, “You’re not the only one who’s been keeping secrets, Erik. I’ve known you were working with Shaw all along. You see…”

He looks directly at Erik, pale but composed. “I’m a telepath.”

Time stutters. Stops. Erik’s throat closes.

The way Charles had kissed him a few seconds ago felt like a goodbye, and now Erik knows why. Charles _lied_ to him. Charles has been lying to him all along. A lifetime of fighting had taught Erik anger and fear; he recoils now, slamming steel walls around his mind, his heart pounding dully in his chest. Pain flashes across Charles’ face, but he only bows his head.

Yet, despite the way every piece of metal in the room hums in his awareness, Erik’s anger doesn’t blaze as brightly as expected. He should be filled with murderous rage, ready to kill Charles for his deception.

Instead he feels – loss. Exhaustion. Bitter regret. He thought there was something between them, something real, but how could there be, when their whole relationship had been built on lies?

“Why?” He asks, harsh and ragged. “Why lie to me all this time?”

Charles licks his lips – and it _hurts,_ seeing that familiar, endearing gesture and wondering if it had been a lie all along. If Charles is lying to him even now.

“My reasons are a great deal less noble than yours, I’m afraid.” Charles’ accent is more pronounced than usual, another sure sign of nerves. “I…” He swallows. Erik’s eyes track the bob of his throat, the way he wets his lips again. The bedsheets rustle. Charles’ next words leave him in a rush, a whispered confession: “I want to leave this place. Shaw offered me the best opportunity of escape.”

_I offered you the same thing,_ Erik wants to say, but presses his lips together into a thin line. “You’re still hiding something. What do you have to escape from? Tell me.”

Charles is quiet for a long moment, but Erik can feel the desire to speak trembling through him. He’s seen it before, in people desperate to unburden themselves but unable to do so. Patiently, Erik waits him out, feeling a strange pang at the shadowed, hunted look on Charles’ face.

At last Charles shakes his head. “My uncle, he…” Then he freezes again, all his usual easy eloquence gone, and Erik can’t help himself – he closes the gap between the two of them, pressing their foreheads together as Charles had done before.

“You can,” he says haltingly, “trust me.”

Charles shivers again. “I do,” he says, so quiet that it’s almost inaudible. “It’s only–” He bites his lip, eyes skittering away to the direction of the window. “You want to know what’s in my uncle’s wing of the mansion, yes? Wait just a few days. Please. Until he leaves on his trip. I’ll show you everything then, I promise.”

Erik wants to know right _now_ , but the prickle of guilt in his conscience reminds him he had betrayed Charles too; he has no right to demand anything from him.

“Shaw’s going to be carrying out his plan at that time,” he says instead.

“He’ll be busy making preparations, we’ll have free run of the mansion for a few hours.”

Erik draws away. “You’re still going through with it? The marriage.”

This time, it’s Charles who shifts forward, following Erik. “It’s the easiest way. It’s not just you and me I’m thinking of, there’s the fortune to consider too. I won’t allow it to fall into Uncle’s hands.”

Erik lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “You think Shaw’s are any better?”

“His cause is not a bad one. I’ve seen the work you’ve done,” Charles says. “Through your eyes and through Shaw’s. You’ve done so much good, much more than you know. You–”

“How can you _say_ that, you know what I’ve done to y–”

“You’re a good man.” For the first time since the start of the conversation, the fire returns to Charles’ eyes. “I don’t always agree with your methods, my friend, but your convictions, your heart…”

Erik shakes his head. “You’d still call me your friend?”

“Always.” Charles smiles, soft and crooked. “If you’ll have me.”

Erik has no answer to that. Unsettled, he changes the topic. “You still haven’t answered my question properly. Shaw. What’s going on between the two of you? Does he know you’re a telepath?”

Again that shuttered look flickers across Charles’ face. Erik growls, frustrated, steeling his heart for another betrayal. “Don’t hide from me. Not again.”

“I won’t, but…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. There’s something I need to tell you, something I shouldn’t have kept from you.” Tension crackles in the room, fear and anguish bleeding through the air – Charles’ telepathy? It must be.

Dread pools in Erik’s stomach. “What is it?”

Charles closes his eyes, as if he can’t bear to look at Erik. “Shaw thinks he and I have been working together from the start. He’s been planning to kill you all along. You’ve become a threat to his power, you see. After the wedding, we agreed to fake my death using your body. But that’s not the entire story.”

_Shaw._ After all that time Erik had spent struggling with his own faith, struggling not to betray him, a little boy clinging to his hero… “No? What else?”

“I’m so sorry,” Charles says again. “I know from Shaw’s memories that you’re aware he’s been liaising with human scientists. He claims he’s spying on them, but what you don’t understand is how _closely_ he’s been working with the scientists. He’s lived for a long time. He has contacts throughout the globe. Doctors, primarily. The police. Military. Groups with the most power to track unusual happenings.”

“Mutant activity, you mean.”

“Exactly. You should know as well as I do that young mutants aren’t always in control of their power. All it takes is one little slip. Shaw knows all the right questions to ask; it’s easy for him to track down mutants through his network.”

If what Charles is saying is true, then Shaw should have been bringing in plenty of young recruits. But he doesn’t. Most of their recruits come from rescue missions. _Children,_ young, traumatised and terrified.

There’s a dull roar echoing in Erik’s ears, fury surging through him as he follows Charles’ hints to their inevitable conclusion.

“Yes,” Charles says, responding to his thoughts. “Once he’s found a young mutant, he alerts certain groups with an interest in mutation and they take the child away. If their families ask too many questions, they’re dealt with. Shaw keeps track of the child’s progress over the years, and once he deems they’ve grown powerful enough to be useful, he swoops in to rescue them.”

Charles draws in a slow breath, his eyes flicking up uncertainly to meet Erik’s. “Erik… That’s what happened to you. It’s what Shaw did to you.”

The roaring in his ears intensifies. “My parents. Did he…”

“Not directly. But he may as well have.”

“You.” His own voice seems to come from far away. “You knew all this. You – you were the one who helped me remember my life before the labs. You know how important my family is. How can you keep this from me?”

“I was wrong,” Charles says simply, always so quick to expose his vulnerabilities, but the hurried way he speaks betrays his anxiety. “I had no right. I’m so sorry, I truly am.”

“But you did it anyway. Why?”

“Selfishness, at first.” Although Charles’ expression is composed, he clutches at the blankets in a white-knuckled grip. This admission can’t be easy for him. “I knew you would react poorly, and that would be the end of all my plans to quietly disappear. Then…” Charles’ eyes dart here and there, restless; trapped. Then he visibly steels himself and looks straight at Erik. “I knew when I told you the truth that it would be the end of any fondness that may exist between us. I… I wasn’t ready to let go. I don’t think I ever will be. But I was wrong, I see that now. You had the right to know.”

Erik is at a loss for words. He tries to draw his anger around him like well-worn armour, but Charles continues to gaze at him, steadfast and regretful, and Erik’s rage simply refuses to come.

“I’m sorry,” Charles murmurs again. “Truly.”

“You should be,” Erik says, but without heat. “What are you going to do after this? Work with Shaw?”

And, finally, that spark of anger he’s been trying to nurse flares to life. _Shaw._ He can’t be allowed to continue.

Never again.

Wariness flickers across Charles’ face, and Erik wonders whether he had heard his thoughts, wonders how strong Charles’ telepathy is. But all Charles says is: “I sense you’d have some strong feelings about that.”

“Shaw needs to be stopped.” How could he have been so _blind –_ all of this was going on right under his nose. Never again. “I’m going to kill him.”

Charles is gravely intent now, expression serious. “But you held such loyalty to him.”

“That was before you told me the truth. I know you don’t believe in violence, Charles, but he killed my _parents._ I’m not going to stand back and let him do the same to someone else. Shaw needs to die.”

“It won’t bring them back. It won’t bring you peace.”

“I’m not looking for peace, I’m looking for justice.” Erik takes a deep, shuddering breath. “You – these past few months with you, you’ve brought me more peace than I ever thought I’d find. I don’t know how much of it was a lie.” He shakes his head, forestalling Charles’ objections. “It doesn’t change what you’ve done. For me.”

Charles had given him a glimpse of the life that exists outside the endless cycle of fighting. He had shown Erik what life is like with someone else by his side. An equal.

“But,” Erik continues, because things between the two of them have grown impossibly complex; he doesn’t know what to think, how to feel. It’s easier to concentrate on his duty. Kill Shaw. “I need to do this. Are you going to stop me?”

Their shared bed is shrouded in darkness, but Charles is deathly pale, his eyes wide, biting his lip in agitation. He half-pushes himself up only to abort the gesture midway through, twisting the blanket around his fingers. “How do you know you’re doing the right thing? Despite everything, he raised you, gave you a home, gave you a purpose…”

“You’re defending him?” Erik demands, incredulous.

“No! No.” Charles shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I was just – just, ignore that, please. Of course Shaw must be stopped. But how can you be so sure killing him is the right thing to do?”

“He killed my parents,” Erik snaps. “You told me yourself, he’s done the same to other mutants and he’ll keep going unless we kill him!”

“You want vengeance as well, not only justice.”

“It doesn’t change anything. Stopping Shaw is the right thing to do, and the only way to stop him is to kill him.” Part of him wants to get into a proper argument with Charles, but the greater part of him simply wants Charles to _understand._ Shaw has already driven too many wedges between them.

Charles quiets, settling back down on the bed. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is _._ ”

There’s a small frown on Charles’ face, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he looks pensive, staring into the distance with an eerie stillness. “You’ve given me a lot to think about, my friend.”

Erik still isn’t entirely sure what to make of Charles. He only knows that the sudden remoteness that had swept over Charles is alarming, and without stopping to think, he reaches out to grasp Charles’ wrist. “You’re not the only one,” he says lowly. Charles has brought far too many questions into his life; sometimes, Erik misses the old, crystalline clarity of his convictions. But on the whole, he has become a better man for Charles, he thinks. Which is why he hates to see Charles so pale and shaken.

Despite his pallor, Charles’ skin is warm and smooth under Erik’s fingers. He strokes gently along the Charles’ wrist, fingertips gliding over the fluttering pulse. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

Charles musters a smile, but it’s a wan thing. “I just need some time to think. I… Please, Erik, promise me you won’t do anything rash. I _will_ help you, I swear. Just give me a few days until my uncle leaves. Shaw won’t do anything before then, he’s invested too much in this scheme to step away at such a critical moment.”

Erik’s lips press together in a thin line. “You’re still keeping secrets.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.” Charles looks away. “Just a few days. Please.”

Erik, the Erik of before, would have pushed to the bitter end. He would have cajoled then threatened, and if that failed, he would have resorted to violence. The ends are always worth the means; when he wants answers he _will_ get them.

But despite everything, he trusts Charles. He can’t believe that Charles would lie to him when they’re together like this, lying side-by-side in the dark, baring their vulnerabilities to each other.

“Fine,” he says simply.

Charles blinks, then smiles. His fingers curl around Erik’s, tentative, and when Erik laces their fingers together firmly, Charles’ smile widens, softly hopeful, delicate as a butterfly’s wings. “Will you stay with me, Erik?”

“I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep,” Erik answers honestly. “There’s so much I don’t know about you. But I’d like to start over. Get to know you. For real, this time.”

A weight seems to lift from the room, a tension Erik hadn’t been aware of until it was gone. Another manifestation of Charles’ telepathy, he assumes – and the thought of the sheer _power_ that must reside in Charles is simply breathtaking.

“Yes, of course,” Charles says. Hope lights a spark in his eyes, the same spark that sometimes glimmers through his porcelain mask when he is being particularly playful. Erik loves it fiercely, just as he loves the curve of Charles’ lips when he adds, just a touch impish: “But I hope we don’t have to start over from the _very_ beginning?”

Charles leans in close, angling his head so he can press their lips together chastely in a gentle kiss, a wordless question.

And Erik – he finds himself at a loss, torn between reciprocating the sweet gesture and turning his head away, unable to entirely let go of the feelings of betrayal or the way his natural caution rears its head, urging him against trusting someone who had already lied to him once.

After a second, Charles pulls away.

“I’m sorry,” Erik says, through dry lips and a clumsy tongue. “I also need some time to think.”

The spark in Charles’ eyes dims, but the look he gives Erik is full of gentle understanding. “Of course, my friend. Anything you need.”

***

“Tomorrow’s the big day,” Shaw drawls. They’re in the room where he gives Charles his daily check-ups – the room Erik _despises,_ his skin crawling at the feeling of all those metal cabinets with all their metal instruments. It’s even worse than usual now that he knows the truth about Shaw; he looks at his mentor surrounded by the tools of his trade and he wonders whether any of them had been used on him before, back when he was a boy pinned out like a butterfly under the scientists’ blades. Shaw had adopted so many vile things from the humans, why not take their tools too?

Rage simmers in the pit of Erik’s stomach, cold and deep. _Calm,_ a memory of Charles’ voice whispers.

There’s too much at stake for him to give in to his anger.

Shaw looks at him, expecting a reply, so Erik nods curtly. “Glad to see the end of it.”

“I thought you were enjoying the young lord’s company.” Shaw’s lips twitch, mocking. Erik wonders how he could ever have been such an empty-headed boy, desperate to see Shaw’s smile, desperate for his approval. “Tired of him so soon?”

Erik levels a flat stare at him. “Stop being crass and focus on the mission.”

“You know what they say about work and play, son.”

_Son._ He used to feel a warm rush of pride every time Shaw called him that. Even after he had grown up and the word began to sound patronising rather than affectionate, it was still a reminder of all he owes Shaw.

Shaw was the first adult mutant he had ever met. Shaw taught him how to harness his powers. Shaw _saved_ him.

And, if what Charles said is true, Shaw was the reason he needed saving in the first place.

Some part of Erik still doesn’t want to believe it. Yet, it all makes too much sense. All the time Shaw spends with human scientists. Shaw’s reluctance to mount rescue missions. The fact they never quite manage to find _all_ the mutants held in a facility.

“You look like you’re thinking hard about something.” Shaw’s voice drags Erik back into the present.

Shit. He can’t let Shaw know.

“Just thinking,” Erik says casually. “You said at the start that this whole scheme was a test for me. Did I pass?”

“With flying colours.”

“So you’re ready to talk about deploying me back onto the field?”

“Of course,” Shaw says, all studied nonchalance. It would be so easy to trust him and forget everything Charles had said. “Look, why don’t we leave this talk until after the wedding? I’m sure we’ll find plenty for you to do.”

“You know I want to get back to work right away. Have you even thought about where to put me?” _Or are you really planning to kill me?_

“Ah, Erik, always so eager to go rushing off. I have a few ideas, but let’s wait a bit, hmm?”

Shaw is never one to hold back from boasting about his plans. Dread settles over Erik. So it’s true. Shaw really has no future plans for him. He was once Shaw’s most valuable asset, and now…

_Can’t let him suspect._

“What happened to planning ahead?” He snaps, feigning irritation when what he’s really feeling is a cold rage capable of ripping the mansion from its foundations. “You’re getting soft.”

“Ah-ah. You sound like you’re about to go rushing off into another hare-brained scheme.” Shaw wags a finger at him, infuriatingly smug. “Keep that up, and I might think you haven’t learnt your lesson.”

Erik _growls._ “You used to trust me,” he snarls, fury and betrayal ripping through him. “You practically raised me. What happened to us, Sebastian? What changed?”

 For just a fraction of a moment, Shaw pauses, a strange look in his eyes that Erik has never seen before.

Then it disappears, and Shaw looks the same as he ever does, all brazen confidence and open superiority.

“I trust you as much as I ever did, Erik. Son. Now come sit down, and I’ll tell you how tomorrow will go…”

 

**2.** **  
** It’s a beautiful day out in the grounds, golden sunlight and verdant greenery as far as the eye can see. In the distance, a lark trills as it ascends in flight.

An automobile idles in the driveway. It is sleek and black, its engine rumbling quietly like a great predator at rest.

The window rolls down. A powerful, thick-fingered hand beckons Charles forward.

“You’ll be good,” Uncle says. His face is half-hidden in shadow.

_How do you know you’re doing the right thing?_

Charles bows his head. “Of course, sir.”

_The only way to stop him is to kill him._

“You remember our agreement. Our deal.”

_You make it sound so easy._

“Yes, sir.”

_It is._

***

Sunset. They’re to stay put until the dark of night, so the two of them are in Charles’ study for the moment, and the air so thick with tension that Charles rubs at his temples, resigning himself to a migraine. Not tonight, he prays. If all goes according to plan, everything will end tonight.

The clock ticks, the march of time slow, inexorable. Beside him, Erik stirs, crossing and uncrossing his long legs. There is a book propped open on his lap, but as Charles watches him, Erik’s eyes skim through the text without seeing, gaze flickering across the same line over and over again. His mind is a storm of questions, but it’s tempered by concern; Erik has resolved not to push Charles for answers before he’s ready, and he’s determined to stand by his decision even though curiosity is eating him alive.

Charles loves him very much at that moment.

One hour to go. He can’t delay any longer. Charles has made a promise and he doesn’t intend to go back on his word. Still, it doesn’t change the way his whole chest goes tight, shame and anxiety and fear making it difficult to breathe. His hands tremble as he shuts his book (he hasn’t read a single word these past few hours), and immediately Erik’s attention snaps to him.

Charles musters an unconvincing smile. “Let’s be going, shall we.”

_Finally,_ Erik’s thoughts shout, but all he says is: “You sure you’re ready?”

“I don’t think I ever will be,” Charles tries to joke, but it falls flat, too honest to be funny. He shakes his head. “I’ll do what I must. Let’s go.”

He’s walked the path to the recital hall many, many times before, almost every single day of his life. But never before has he felt this mix of choking fear coupled with quiet, fragile _hope._

The last time. Whatever happens, this is the last time he has to walk this path.

Erik’s mind sparks with the keen interest of a hunter as Charles pushes open the door to the hall. His sharp gaze sweeps through the room, cataloguing every detail. The small raised dais, open and exposed.  The rows of benches arranged in a circular pattern, allowing the hungry audience to watch the performance from every direction, every angle.

The bookshelves, each of them stuffed to the brim. Uncle had kept expanding the hall as his collection grew. Now the bookshelves are ordered in neat, dense rows, enough of them for a small library. Display cases of glass break up the monotony, proudly exhibiting intricate scrolls and illustrated texts.

Confusion creases Erik’s brow. “This is…” _Just a normal room,_ his mind supplies.

If only.

And the thing is, Charles _can_ keep up the deception. The trapdoor is right there. He can just lead Erik down to the lab, leaving this whole sorry chapter of his past behind him. Erik never has to know his shame. His weakness. He does not owe Erik this part of the truth; this has nothing to do with the lies he had told concerning Shaw.

But – and Charles doesn’t wholly understand it himself – some part of him wants Erik, someone, anyone to know the truth. The whole truth. He’s lived with the lies and the silence for too long.

He wants – he _hopes –_ for Erik to understand.

But what if he doesn’t? Or, worse, what if every time Erik looks at him from now on, he only sees a victim? Someone weak, someone piti–

“Charles?”

Erik’s voice jolts him from his thoughts. Erik is watching him with a frown. He wants to demand answers, Charles can sense it, but the greater part of his thoughts is preoccupied with concern for Charles.

Charles takes a deep breath, licking dry lips. He can’t look at Erik.

“The bookshelves. Just. See for yourself.”

Erik’s footsteps are soft as he picks his way across the hall. Charles closes his eyes, building up the barriers around his mind. Already he regrets his decision.

Paper rustles.

Then–

Shock. It pierces clean through Charles’ mental defences, and Charles freezes like a child caught in the middle of wrongdoing. He hears the turning of pages, loud and quick, a noise like a panicked bird beating its wings.

Erik tosses the book away. It thumps against the ground. He rips open another book, flicking through the pages so rapidly that Charles hears it as a _snap-snap, snap-snap,_ the crack of the whip, the breaking of bones.

“Charles. _What is this.”_

He cannot answer. Charles stares at the ground, waiting for Erik’s scorn. His eyes burn.

“ _Charles!_ ”

He shakes his head.

From far away, he hears the ragged exhale of Erik’s breath. “You. All this time. Every _single_ time you went to read for him, every single day… I, that time I forced you into that costume…”

All his usual eloquence had deserted Charles. He closes his eyes, mute, and Erik lets out a snarl, fury battering against Charles’ shields.

“How long?” Erik demands. “How long has he– When did this start?”

“I was six,” his voice sounds so quiet, nothing like himself at all, “from memory. It was shortly after I first arrived here. I…”

His voice cracks. He swallows, rubbing at his eyes, a childish habit he can’t seem to break. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t– I didn’t know how to say no. You must think me so–”

Charles jumps as Erik suddenly moves, arm sweeping out to send the row of books tumbling to the floor in a series of sickening thuds. They lie there like dead, broken things, pages bent and crumpled, covers askew. He catches a glimpse of a half-torn ink drawing, the legs ripped apart.

“Erik?”

The whole room trembles. Wood splinters, the nails that hold the bookshelf together rattling and warping. The whole thing comes apart with a clatter, rows and rows of books falling to the floor, the wooden frame tumbling down to crush them. Charles stares uncomprehendingly at their broken-spined forms. He almost feels like he’s one of them, lying helplessly on the ground as Erik pulls the world apart right around his ears.

Silver flashes through the air: metal, responding to Erik’s command. Veins bulge from the back of his hand as he clenches it into a fist, and the metal soars in deadly arcs across the bookshelves, scything across wood and paper alike.

Pages flutter to the ground. Another bookshelf trembles, coming apart with a groan and sending a cascade of books spilling across the floor. Almost in a dream, Charles stoops to pick one of them up, only for Erik to snatch it out of his hands and throws it back onto the pile. “Never again,” he says harshly, but the words seem to slip out of Charles’ dazed mind the instant he hears them. He can only watch, still uncomprehending, as Erik steps contemptuously over the pile, crushing the delicate pages beneath his shoes.

Another crash. Something falls: an inkwell, splattering black stains across the fallen volumes.

Erik is pausing, one of the exposed pages catching his eye: … _if anyone desires to use you in any manner whatsoever, he will use you…_

Fury. Charles’ mental shields crack.

Erik, on the ground, blades of metal ripping through the pages.

A scattering of red. Ink? Blood? Charles makes a small noise – Erik shouldn’t hurt himself, not over this – but it’s swallowed up by the tearing of parchment as Erik tears apart a stack of papers, trampling them underfoot.

One of the glass cases shatters, its metal frame warping. Crystalline shards slice through the scroll on display. It’s one of Uncle’s favourites, a depiction of a woodland hunt, the baying hounds immortalised in ink, the fleeing boy naked and half-mad with fear.

All gone now. The ragged, ruined edges of the parchment burn in Charles’ mind.

Another shelf topples. The very bones of the house seem to shake with the force of Erik’s rage, a red tide that crashes over Charles’ mind.

Strange. He doesn’t fear it, not like the way he fears Uncle’s red thoughts.

Something hard shifts under Charles’ foot. His heart skips a nervous beat when he realizes he had just stepped on one of Uncle’s books. Instinct takes over and Charles flinches away – he remembers this book, remembers being twelve and sitting on the dais and reading it aloud as every single man in the audience fantasised about raping him – and he jumps at another thunderous crash as Erik takes an armful of books and dashes them all against the ground.

He’s never seen such deadly focus in Erik’s eyes before.

_Never again._

Gingerly, his heart pounding, Charles nudges at the book with his foot, pushing it beneath the growing pile of rubble. He’ll never have to see it again. He’ll never see any of this again.

The mad racing of his pulse doesn’t slow, but with that first little act of defiance, some of the fog around his head lifts. Although he still can’t bring himself to speak, Charles scrapes together enough courage to touch Erik lightly on the elbow, guiding him to the back of the room where a discreet false wall swings open to reveal an alcove filled with accoutrements Uncle likes to keep on hand: racks of wood and metal – the sort perfect for tying a small, unwilling body to – long braided whips, silken ropes and the faceless mannequin Uncle had liked to see him straddle.

Erik destroys all of it. Charles stares at the twisted metal, the shattered wood, hardly daring to breathe, hardly daring to believe. In a daze he leads Erik to the trapdoor, only dimly aware of the devastation Erik leaves in their wake.

Down the stairs they go, the cold darkness broken by Erik’s churning anger and disbelief. _All this time, how could I not have known…_

The steel door, heavy and forbidding. Erik wrenches it apart with nothing but a flick of his wrist.

Electricity sparks. The entire bunker rumbles ominously, but Charles feels no fear; a first, considering his usual experiences in this place. He’s curiously calm as he watches Erik plant his feet against the ground and raise his arms.

The humming of Erik’s power grows, rising to a crescendo. Charles’ breath catches in wonder as every single piece of metal in the room shudders, then floats, effortlessly borne aloft by Erik’s power. There must be enough metal there to build a warship, but Erik lifts it all without a hint of strain, the look of focus on his face absolute and intense.

Then, with a defiant shriek that shakes the very foundations of the mansion, all the metal in the room crumples. The cabinets and the machinery, the cruel surgical tools – all rendered harmless in an instant.

The silence that follows is deafening. Standing in the middle of the wreckage, Charles gazes at the remnants of the only life – the only _home –_ he had ever known.

Erik turns to face him. Under the stark white lights of the ruined laboratory, his eyes blaze. “I’ll kill him,” he vows, fierce. “He’ll never hurt you again.”

Charles blinks. The fog blanketing his head stirs sluggishly. “I… I don’t…”

“We’ll wait for him to come back from his trip. Forget Shaw – we’ll deal with this first.”

“ _Erik.”_ Charles finds his voice again, the fog around his head burning away. “Stop.”

Erik whirls around to face him, fury and disbelief twisting his face into that of a stranger’s. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to let him go. Marko needs to _die._ ” His hand sweeps out, gesturing at the twisted wreckage of the room. “After everything he’s done – all he’s done to you! You can’t walk away from this, Charles. You need to take revenge.”

It feels like they’ve had this conversation before, arguing in circles. “I don’t want his death and I don’t want revenge. I only want to ensure he never does the same thing to anybody else.”

“Killing him does the same thing.”

“I don’t want revenge!” Charles repeats in a snap, heat flaring in his chest. Some days he thinks he spends his entire life shouting into a void, unheard, all his words futile. “Enough, Erik. Please.”

He’s spent his whole life bending to Uncle’s will. He doesn’t think he can bear it if Erik turns out to be the same.

Perhaps Erik sees some of his thoughts on Charles’ face. Charles doesn’t know; he’s still too much a coward to delve into Erik’s mind again, too fearful of finding scorn and pity. Whatever the case, Erik softens, but his eyes lose none of their intensity. “We can’t let him walk free. You know that.”

“Yes, of course.” But what can he do? Restless, Charles paces down the length of the room. Some of that dream-like haze returns, but Charles forcefully shoves it away – no time for that, he can process his shock later, lock it away and toss away the key. Right now, Erik is waiting for him to come up with a plan. Charles can feel his eyes boring into his back as he walks, fingertips trailing against ruined fixtures and crumpled shelving, the physical evidence of Erik’s fierce anger.

Anger. For him. On his behalf. Even now, Charles can feel it brushing against his shields, a thundering roll of righteous fury, and there’s something else–

_Protectiveness,_ Charles realises, with no small amount of awe. Despite everything, Erik still cares about him.

He cannot – _will not_ – let Erik down.

Charles takes a deep breath, centering himself. Erik is right; Uncle must be dealt with, but how? Charles’ mind turns to the principles he had clung to all his life, to his belief in knowledge and education and communication, but the thought of _talking_ to Uncle is so ludicrous that he almost laughs. No, Uncle will never listen to him.

Is there truly no other way? Charles refuses to accept that. His eyes scan the room, searching for a solution.

A pile of battered folders lies in his path, Uncle’s notes spilling onto the ground. Picking up one of the files, Charles flicks it open, carefully locking away the revulsion stirred up by memories of all those experiments. Uncle had never shared the results with him before. Now, Charles frowns at the jumble of numbers and graphs, trying to wrestle them into some semblance of sense. There’s so much information here, and this is only one file out of hundreds from the _years_ Uncle had spent studying his telepathy – how much had he discovered that Charles knows nothing about?

Charles closes the file with a decisive snap. He bends, beginning the laborious task of stacking all the remaining folders into a neat pile. “Erik, help me gather all the files you can find.”

Erik’s discontent rubs against his mind like prickling static. “I hope you’re planning to destroy them.”

“No, I’m going to use them.” Charles responds evenly.  “Despite their…origins, by all rights they should belong to me.”

“They’re the product of human experiments. Human cruelties. You don’t _need_ them, Charles.”

How to explain this? Erik is striding up to him, footsteps quick and angry, and Charles meets his eyes without flinching. “You of all people should understand the concept of using the enemy’s own tools against them. The research exists already. Destroying it would be a waste when we can channel it towards something more productive.”

“Such as?”

Charles brushes his fingers across the back of the battered folder, all its crinkles and imperfections rough under his fingertips. “I… If I’m to live outside the mansion, in the outside world, I need to master my telepathy. I’ve been afraid of it for far too long. These files, all the files in this lab, they contain the details of every single experiment my uncle has ever run on me and every other mutant that has passed through these doors. Our powers, our genetics, our biology, our health…” A plan is beginning to coalesce in his mind. He’ll reclaim everything Uncle has ever taken from him; he’ll take all of Uncle’s twisted research and use it for _good._ “We can use this knowledge to help our people.”

Erik isn’t convinced, that much is clear, but neither does he make any move to stop Charles. “The files will be dangerous in the wrong hands.”

“Then let’s make sure they stay in ours.”

His plan solidifies. Resolve settling into his bones, Charles nods grimly to himself. He’ll gather every single scrap of Uncle’s notes with or without Erik’s help.

Erik must sense his conviction, because he exhales in that quiet way that Charles has come to recognize as Erik conceding a point.

“We’ll try it your way,” Erik says, but what Charles hears in his mind is: _I trust you._

***

They don’t have much time left before their rendezvous with Shaw, and there are so many of Uncle’s notes to pack. It’s impossible to take them all; Charles does his best to pick out the important ones, trying to drown out the ticking of the clock, the movement of the wind and cloud-shadows outside his window. It’s already full dark. The gas lamp flickers as Charles pores over the notes and he rubs at his eyes, trying to will away the growing tightness in his chest.

After the third time he unpacks then repacks their luggage under the guise of rearranging the notes, Erik stops him with a light touch against his wrist. “You’re delaying.”

“I’m only being thorough,” Charles protests, although he knows the truth. “Shaw can wait a few minutes, this is too important to rush.”

“Charles. What’s wrong?”

Charles bites his lip, but, as always, he concedes that he owes Erik his honesty. “It’s nothing serious. It’s just, just rather difficult to believe this day has finally comes.”

Erik watches him, steady and intent. “You mean leaving the mansion?”

“I’ve never left, not since the day I first arrived,” Charles confesses. Automatically, his gaze goes to the window, but at that moment, the thought of the outside world is too much. His eyes skitter away, skin prickling hot and uncomfortable. “I thought I never would.”

“You’re afraid,” Erik observes. Charles braces himself for Erik’s judgement, but there’s not a whisper of that in Erik’s mind, just quiet, thoughtful concern.

“I suppose I am.” For all the time he’s spent living in other people’s heads, Charles has no idea what to expect for himself. What if he leaves only to realize he’s incapable of adapting to the outside world? What if he leaves only to realize that Uncle is right, that the only place for him is inside this mansion, inside Uncle’s reading room?

Unconsciously, his breathing quickens. Chest tight with frustration, Charles scrubs at his eyes, forcefully willing away the tell-tale prickle of heat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to delay us. Shall we go?”

He doesn’t get a response immediately. Erik’s mind is a steady hum of activity, picking out words and phrases only to discard them just as quickly; Charles doesn’t pry into the specifics. He stays carefully still as Erik moves closer, but he can’t help the startled exhale that leaves him when Erik’s warm hand cups his cheek, tilting his head up so they face each other properly.

Erik’s pale eyes are grave, solemn with the heavy weight of promise. “You don’t have to do this alone, Charles.” His thumb brushes across Charles’ cheekbone, against the curve of his ear, startlingly gentle. “You’re leaving behind everything you’ve ever known. It might take some time for you to find your way, that’s only normal. I won’t abandon you to do it alone.”

“Erik…” It’s too good to be true. Charles blinks rapidly, trying to quell the rising, foolish hope that threatens to overtake him. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, my friend. Don’t forget we still have our differences.”

“And we can work through them,” Erik insists. “Together.”

Erik’s mind burns with conviction – not a momentary blaze, but a conviction that entrenches itself into his mind with foundations of solid steel. He _means_ it, Erik really does mean it, he’s going to stay…

Charles can’t help it; the hope and affection rushing through him needs an outlet. He stretches up to kiss Erik, swift and urgent – and just a touch uncertain – but then Erik cradles his face in calloused hands and pulls him closer, deepening the kiss. For a long moment, they simply stand there, swaying against each other, Erik cupping Charles’ face and Charles’ arms wrapped around Erik’s shoulders, and the moment is just perfect, so perfect.

The chime of the clock interrupts them. Charles pulls away slowly, his reluctance mirrored in Erik’s eyes, but an unspoken understanding resonates between them. They need to put an end to this. Shaw, Marko – neither can be allowed to continue.

They leave his rooms, moving with purpose. Charles deftly nudges all attention away from them. The mansion is almost eerie in its emptiness as they walk through its lonely halls one last time, their footsteps swallowed by the carpeting. All around them, the gas lamps throw strange flickering shadows against the wall, and Charles picks up the pace, pulse thudding in his chest. _Soon._

Erik throws open the heavy front doors. The night air drifts into the mansion, cool and sweet with the first hints of spring.

“Are you ready?” Standing at the threshold, Erik looks ethereal – a spirit bathed in the spill of moonlight, his silhouetted limned in silver.

Icy doubt trickles down the back of Charles’ neck. It’s already far too late for second thoughts, but he can’t help it, all his old fears and insecurities rising in a sudden, crushing tide that constricts his throat and makes it difficult to breathe. “One moment,” he manages. God. Erik looks so untouchable like this.

He jumps as Erik’s hand closes around his, broad and warm and _alive_ , calloused from a life spent working and fighting. Erik laces their fingers together and squeezes his hand.

“Look at me, Charles.”

Charles lifts his gaze. This is real. He’s real.

Erik is looking back at him, and the expression on his face is painfully gentle. Charles swallows down the lump in his throat. He doesn’t deserve this, not any of this, but it’s so hard to protest when he’s surrounded by the candlelit warmth of Erik’s mind, a quiet blanket of safety and acceptance settling around his shoulders.

“I won’t leave you,” Erik vows.

_You’re not alone,_ his mind promises.

And, finally, Charles believes him. He nods. A smile breaks across Erik’s face, fierce and joyous, and he grips Charles’ hand with renewed strength.

They cross the threshold and step into the moonlit grounds. A lively breeze ruffles Charles’ hair, bringing with it the scent of new grass, the fresh growth of spring, the trill of a faraway nightingale.

Erik never once lets go of his hand. Together, side by side, they make their way past the boundary of the estate, leaving behind the silver-dappled shadow of the yew tree.

 

**3.**  
Shaw is waiting to spirit them away. He stands in the middle of the road, a tall dark figure idling by an automobile. Under Shaw’s watchful eye, Erik clambers into the driver’s seat while Shaw ushers Charles into the back, his voice dripping like honey as he fusses over Charles, all false solicitousness. Erik grits his teeth and seethes quietly to himself.

At least Shaw had picked a good vehicle. The engine purrs to life under Erik’s touch and he spares a moment to admire the fine workmanship, knowing this journey may well be their last moment of calm before all hell breaks loose. Before, he might not have particularly cared. Now, he takes the time to run his senses across the metal, enjoying its pleasant hum as he taps on the accelerato.

The countryside unfurls in front of Erik as he drives, an inky landscape of trees broken by the occasional splash of light and pale fog. It’s a tranquil scene, the sort that encourages meditation – but Shaw is right _there_ and his presence is impossible to ignore. In the rearview mirror, Erik can see him gathering Charles close, playing the role of a doting lover; he leans in, mouth brushing against the shell of Charles’ ear as he murmurs something which has Charles’ lashes fluttering in response. Shaw smiles, arranging the two of them so that Charles’ head is pillowed against his shoulder, and worst of all, Charles just _lets_ him, pliant as a little ragdoll. It isn’t long before Charles’ face goes slack with sleep, but Erik can see a small line of tension furrowing his brow and he knows Charles is less relaxed than he appears.

Still, nothing prepares Erik for the sudden whisper of Charles’ voice: _Erik? Erik, can you hear me?_

Erik’s fingers twitch violently on the steering wheel, shock flooding his mind. _You’re in my head._ Charles had never used his telepathy with him before. He thought Charles’ abilities would be weak from disuse, but the hint of Charles’ power brushing against his mind feels impossibly vast, deep and boundless as the sky at dusk.

_Yes. Is that fine with you? We need to talk._

_Of course._ Perhaps he should be uneasy with a telepath rummaging around his head – certainly, he would never trust Emma in the same way – but right now, Charles’ powers are simply _breathtaking._

He can feel Charles’ surprise colouring his mind, quickly followed by warm gratitude. _Thank you._

_Talk to me, is Shaw planning anything we need to know about?_

_The marriage ceremony will be carried out tonight. Afterwards…_ Erik can feel a chill creep through their connection, a gathering of dark clouds. _He’ll consummate the marriage._

_No!_

Charles continues as if he had not heard the red-hot flare of denial. _Within the week he’ll have secured the fortune. He plans to kill you after that, although he’s yet to work out the specifics. We were planning to fake my death so Uncle won’t have any reason to search for me; Shaw intends to stage an automobile accident. A rather explosive one, shall we say. The sort that leaves behind nothing but a corpse charred beyond identification._

_Using my body, you mean. Well, it’s a sound plan. No reason we can’t turn it back around on Shaw._

Charles’ presence in his head goes pensive and thoughtful. _No. No, I don’t see a reason to stage my death anymore. I can’t spend the rest of my life running from Uncle._

_And Shaw?_

_What about him?_

_He needs to die, Charles, you know that._

_…Yes. Yes, I know._

Erik thought he would feel triumphant at dragging the concession out of Charles, but instead he’s left strangely unsatisfied. _So you’ll help me?_

_That was never in question. But I’m concerned about the potential fallout._

_What do you mean?_

_Uncle’s research. I’m thinking about the best way to help our people. I think I may have a plan, but it would require me to step into the spotlight – and the last thing we need is for a bloody, brutal murder to be traced back to the two of us. If we must deal wi– if we must kill Shaw, then let’s do it in a manner that is more subtle._

_I don’t care how we do it as long as we don’t leave him to walk free. What do you have in mind?_

_Shaw promised me something at the start of all this. A tool to escape my uncle for once and for all. Let’s see if he keeps his promise._

***

The wedding is a hurried, emotionless affair. The officiant rushes the couple through their vows, and when Shaw bends to kiss Charles, Charles merely blinks at him placidly even as Erik sees red. He calms only when Shaw steps away to sign the marriage document, especially when he feels Charles' presence slips into his head once more.

_The officiant has been handsomely paid off, he won't ask any questions._ Whatever Charles is feeling, it's locked tight away somewhere Erik can't reach; all he senses is a steel wall of resolve. _After we're gone, he'll conveniently forget to file the marriage certificate._

_Are you going to wipe all his memories of tonight?_

Erik glimpses a flash of regret, of fear, then the walls rise up once more. _I should, shouldn't I?_

_You know it has to be done. You won't cause any permanent damage, I've seen Emma Frost wipe memories all the time._

_You're right, of course. I'll do what I have to. To keep us safe._

Charles' presence fades away again. The sham of a ceremony ends; Erik sees Shaw pull Charles to one side, and he strides forward just fast enough to catch the tail end of what Shaw is saying: "-not to use it so soon, hmm? We have a fun night ahead of us." Shaw’s thin lips twitch in a familiar, mocking smile, and light glints off his hand as he passes something to Charles.

"Ah, Erik!" Charles feigns surprise as he turns to face Erik, his eyes wide and blue. _I have it,_ he says directly into Erik's head, even as he asks, "Is it time to leave already?"

"Just about, I'll go get the car ready. If you'll come with me, sir?"

"Yes, let's not delay. Sebastian?" Charles favours his newly-wed husband with a beaming smile, so brilliant and charming that Erik might have believed it if not for the lingering darkness that shadows Charles' thoughts.

Shaw, still playing the role of the perfect gentleman, offers Charles his arm with an indulgent chuckle. Charles takes it, the smile never leaving his face.

But as they walk past Erik, Charles - hesitates, a barely perceptible flinch. Certainly, Shaw doesn't notice. But Erik is attuned to Charles' moods after months spent by his side. _Stick to the plan,_ he warns Charles, sending a pulse of reassurance even as he tries to stress the urgency of the situation.

Charles responds with a wordless brush of acknowledgement. A second later, Erik feels something small and hard pressed into his hand.

He turns away, hiding a grim smile.

***

_Shaw promised me a wedding gift, you see. He doesn't want to murder me outright, but he thinks I'm not strong enough to survive the outside world. So he intends to give me a painless way out and claim the entire fortune once I'm gone._

_And this gift is...?_

_A vial of opium, concentrated enough to kill. I'll be sorry to part with it. But Shaw is known to indulge in alcohol and opiates and the like - it won't be so strange if he accidentally imbibes too much during tonight's celebrations._

Replaying their earlier conversation in his mind, Erik stares down at the innocuous crystal vial resting in the palm of his hand. There's only a small amount of liquid inside, colourless, catching the light in a glinting prism of colours as Erik tips the vial from side to side, watching the opiate swirl around.

Strange to think that something so innocent-seeming will be the end of a mutant as powerful as Shaw.

Stranger still is the thought that he'll be the one killing Shaw, killing him with poison and treachery, this man who had raised him and called him son.

_It's not too late to back out,_ a voice at the back of his head murmurs. Erik can't be sure if the thought belongs to himself or to Charles. Either way, he shakes his head, drawing on the bottomless reserves of his anger. Shaw had his parents killed. Shaw sold out his own kind. Vengeance, justice - they're one and the same. Erik has a duty to see this through.

He looks down at the modest spread of food in front of him. Currently, he's alone in the kitchen of one of Shaw's safehouses, still playing the part of Lord Xavier's dutiful manservant. Shaw had tasked him with preparing dinner - "Oysters, perhaps," he had said with a chuckle that almost made Erik hit him - and, more importantly, Erik is to serve their drinks. Well, dinner is as finished as it's ever going to be. He rings a bell to signal the start of the meal, bringing the appetizers out to the cozy round table where Shaw and Charles are seated. _Too close,_ Erik thinks angrily, only for Charles to smooth calming mental fingers against him, a feeling not unlike having his hair stroked.

The main course is next, with the wine alongside. In the closed confines of the kitchen, Erik stares down at the glass of dark red liquid, rolling the crystal vial around in his hand.

Shaw made him into the man he is today.

And Charles... Charles is making him into someone _better._

Erik tips the entire vial into one of the glasses. Then he carries both glasses out, setting one in front of Charles, one in front of Shaw. It feels like a goodbye.

Charles dips into his mind again, and his presence already feels so familiar that it makes Erik ache with the enormity of all he feels. _It's done,_ he tells Charles, and Charles surrounds him in a warm blanket of reassurance and love.

_Then it's almost over. I'm glad._

_Don't get too comfortable yet, he might still have a trick or two up his sleeve._

It doesn't take long for Erik to be proven right. The effects of the opium start subtly at first: a yawn, a lazy blink, a flirtation trailing off into drowsy silence. Shaw keeps drinking - but not fast enough.

_Erik!_ Charles' mental shout of alarm sends Erik grabbing all the nearest metal just as Shaw surges to his feet and slams his hands on the table in a deafening crack.

"You!" He thunders at Charles, lurching forward. "The hell did you do to me?"

The effects of the opium have made Shaw clumsy, but he's still a deadly threat - Charles had scrambled up to his feet already and is now backing away, glancing between Shaw and Erik. He lifts one hand and presses two fingers against his temple.

Then he drops his hand, eyes wide.

"Hold him, Charles," Erik snarls. There's plenty of metal orbiting him, sharp knives and heavy tools, iron banisters fashioned into deadly points to stab and pierce. He doesn't know if any of it will do any good against Shaw.

Shaw spares him a look. Fury twists his face into a snarling mask.

Then he smiles. It's a chilling, poisonous expression. "Charles," he croons, sickeningly sweet. "Have you turned my Erik against me?"

"Charles did nothing except give me the truth." Erik clenches his fist, reshaping all the metal around him into long, flowing lengths of chain. Brute force won't work against Shaw; he must keep him contained somehow...

Shaw gives him a contemptuous look, dismissing him as easily as he would swat a fly. Erik's heart leaps into his throat as Shaw advances on Charles again, menace roiling off him in waves. "Did you seduce him? Does he know what you do behind closed doors, little _Lord_ Xavier?"

"Hold him, Charles, what are you waiting for-"

_Be quiet, Erik, he's stronger than I expected._ Charles' fingers go to his temple again. He stands his ground, staring Shaw down, a quiet fury in his eyes that Erik has never seen before.

But Shaw just keeps _going,_ looming over Charles, and Erik's panic grows. “Get away from him!”

He hurls the chains forward with a jerk of his hand. They snake around Shaw’s neck and chest, a strangling noose of iron powerful enough to break bone. Erik yanks at the chains; he needs to force Shaw back, anything, anything at all to get him away from Charles…

Shaw only laughs. The air around him ripples with heat, and his skin churns nauseatingly as he absorbs the energy of Erik’s frantic attempts. “I taught you better than that,” he chides.

With nothing but a light flick of Shaw’s wrist, the chains snap. The fragments crumble to the ground and Shaw treads carelessly over them. He’s only three feet away from Charles now. Two.

Erik sees red. He doesn’t think, just hurls piece after piece of metal at Shaw, Shaw’s sick laughter ringing in his ears as all his efforts crash and break against the unmovable wall of Shaw’s body, useless, powerless.

_Keep it up, Erik, it’s working, you’re distracting him–_

Charles’ presence in his mind vanishes abruptly. His face is blanched of all colour, but the blue of his eyes remains stark and fierce, and he never once blinks in the face of Shaw’s advance.

But courage isn’t enough against an enemy like Shaw. Neither is brute force, Erik thinks, even as he sends the chains lashing forward again. Subtlety, that’s what he needs here, that’s what Charles had taught him; mere anger isn’t enough.

“Once we’re done here, I’ll tear down every single one of your projects,” Erik promises. He winds the chains around Shaw’s neck again and again, and when Shaw shatters them, Erik reforms them once more, implacable. “The Brotherhood will know everything you’ve done. Your memory will be a curse.”

Shaw is snarling now – his pride and greed have always been his weakness, and Erik presses his advantage.

“Mutants will flourish without you. All along, you were the one holding us back–”

“After all I’ve done for all of you – I was the one who made you–“

“You lied to me!” Erik roars, fury surging. “All my life, you’ve been using me!”

“For the greater good!” Shaw whirls around to face him, eyes blazing–

–And then his eyes go empty. He is a statue, frozen in time. Erik darts a quick glance at Charles and finds his expression drawn tight with strain. Blood is trickling down his nose, a shade of red so dark that it’s almost black. But his voice is even as he says: “Hurry, Erik. Remember the plan.”

Erik picks up the wineglass and approaches Shaw. His eyes are so _dead._ It’s as if he’s already a corpse already – and perhaps that’s not so far from the truth. Shaw will never move under his own power again. He will never speak another word, never tell another lie…

Vengeance should be more satisfying than this. Erik only feels numb as he prises Shaw’s jaw open and forces the rest of the poisoned wine down his throat.

Shaw collapses. His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow. Erik knows he’ll never wake again.

Then Charles crumples to the ground as well, and Erik moves before he registers what he’s doing, rushing to Charles’ side and dropping to his knees. “Charles! What’s wrong?”

Charles’ eyes are cloudy. Blood is still trickling down his nose, staining his lips red. “Did it help?” He asks quietly.

“You’re not making any sense.” Erik gathers Charles into his arms, registering with dull surprise that his hands are shaking. Charles is trembling as well, swallowing convulsively, his breathing rapid and shallow. “Talk to me, Charles, what’s wrong? How can I help?”

“Did it help?” Charles repeats insistently. “Killing Shaw. Did it help?”

Erik shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly. It’s impossible to think about Shaw when Charles looks worse with each passing second. Erik fumbles for his pulse, finding it dangerously weak and thready. “Forget Shaw. You’re, are you–” He grips Charles’ hand. “Fight it, Charles, whatever it is, you need to fight it.”

Charles reaches out, gently running his fingers against Erik’s cheek. “I think I’m still in his head.” His voice is soft, almost dreamy. “You were magnificent. You made him so furious at the end, he forgot about everything else. He was determined to take us down with him. He still is.”

“He won’t succeed,” Erik vows, even though he’s cold with dread. “Stay with me. Focus on my mind, not his.”

Holding tightly onto Charles’ hand, afraid to let go, Erik guides him into pressing his fingertips against the side of Erik’s head. _Stay with me,_ he calls to Charles again, trying to project warmth and comfort, candlelight and memories of the long hours they had spent in the study. He grasps hold of the little details: the feeling of parchment paper under his fingertips, the play of light across Charles’ hands when he gesticulates, the impassioned cadence of his voice as he argues a particularly fine point…

They stay together like that, Erik holding grimly onto Charles, an unmovable anchor as their minds bleed together, intertwining. Behind them, Shaw’s breathing gradually slows, then stops, and with his passing Charles goes still as well, peace falling over him.

***

The next few days stutter past in an odd series of mismatched rhythms. Sometimes the hours drag by, agonizingly slow. Other times, Erik feels like he has no time to even _breathe_ with the amount of activity unravelling around him. Shaw’s body is handled with minimal fuss; the police rule it as an accident, drug overdose, case closed. Shaw is quietly and ignominiously forgotten by the humans.

Not so in the mutant community. Shaw’s death had left a power vacuum, and much of Erik’s time is spent wrestling for control over the various factions now embroiled in petty squabbles. The safehouse becomes filled with the constant stink of sulphur as Azazel teleports in and out, ferrying messages and occasionally delivering a mutant for Erik to glare into submission.

“It would be easier if I just take you with me,” Azazel grumbles after one such delivery.

“Not a chance,” Erik replies shortly.

He can’t leave. Charles is still recuperating. He doesn’t wake at all that first day, and Erik would have been out of his mind with worry had their thoughts not remained so closely entwined with each other. Charles’ presence is a constant a glow at the back of his head, faint but steady.

He’ll be fine. He has to be.

The second day is worse. Midway through the afternoon, Erik is attacked by a flare of stabbing pain, fierce enough to drive him to his knees. He clutches at his head and bites back a groan – it’s like someone is driving a pick right between his eyes, like he’s being stabbed, his skull split open–

The pain stops abruptly. Charles’ presence vanishes with it.

_Fuck_. Taking the stairs two at a time, Erik slams into Charles’ room. “Charles!”

Charles had moved from where he was peacefully asleep earlier. Now, he’s a small, dark shape on the bed, curled into himself, the blankets drawn over his head. Erik crosses the room in quick strides. “You’re awake?”

“Unfortunately.” The word is muffled by the blankets. “Migraine.”

And that was that. The pain is bad enough this time that Charles has forming words, and he adamantly refuses to link his mind with Erik’s again. When Erik pictures his thoughts reaching out for Charles, Charles only shakes his head and winces. “I can’t stop myself from projecting the migraine,” he says tiredly, the stubborn martyr. “I don’t want you to share it.”

Erik would have pressed the point, but something about Charles softens his hard edges, and he reluctantly concedes. It doesn’t stop him from climbing into bed with Charles, a stack of reports in his lap.

When Charles reaches out to lace their fingers together, Erik lets him, absently running his thumb over the knuckles of Charles’ hand.

Charles’ migraine doesn’t abate that day, or the next. It’s not until the morning of the fourth day that Erik wakes to find Charles smiling softly at him. He’s pale, his eyes smudged with dark circles, but the sight of him properly awake and _alive_ is sweeter than Erik had ever imagined. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding in.

“You look tired,” Charles remarks, and it’s just like him to fret over Erik when _he_ was the one who almost died from holding onto Shaw. Erik can’t help but laugh, just a touch reluctant, and shakes his head.

“I could say the same.” His voice is rough. He almost stops there, but then the words come spilling out: “I thought I lost you.”

A frown ripples over Charles’ face, then smooths into a look of resolve. “Shaw had to be stopped.”

“…He did.” And Erik would have killed him at the expense of his own life, but Charles’…

Charles hasn’t even had the chance to truly live yet. Erik had demanded too much of him, he sees that now, and Erik isn’t so proud that he’ll refuse to admit fault. “But I should have been more patient. Spent more time planning. Made sure you understood the dangers. What we did was incredibly risky.”

Still, he thinks about Shaw’s plans to consummate his sham marriage with Charles, and something cold and ugly twists in his gut.

Charles is scrutinizing him, his expression thoughtful but impossible to read. “I wouldn’t have said no to more time spent planning,” he finally says. “But, Erik, you mustn’t feel guilty. My choices were my own.”

“I know you didn’t want to kill Shaw.”

Charles’ mouth twists. “You didn’t force me into anything I didn’t want to do. Death is always a waste, yes, but for someone like Shaw…” He looks troubled, but only for a second. Then he looks Erik squarely in the eye. “I’ve been in his mind before. I’ve tried to reason with him. His pride and envy run deep, deeper than you can imagine. He would have never let you live. If it was a choice between him and you…”

Pressing his lips together, Charles shakes his head. “I don’t regret it,” he says with a sense of finality.

For a few moments, they sit together in thoughtful silence, then Erik asks: “Are you really going to go through with it?”

Four days ago – had it really only been four days? – during their telepathic conversation in the car, Charles had resolved to stop running away from Marko. More than that, he had decided to fight back. Erik would have enjoyed tracking Marko down and killing him, but Charles had other plans _._ Plans Erik isn’t sure he approves of, if he’s honest, but he concedes Charles has the right to his own revenge.

_Justice, not vengeance,_ Charles had said into their shared link.

_You’ll be ruining him either way._

_Good._

The plan is a simple one on the surface: inform the public of Marko’s crimes. Drag his perversions into the light, his cruelty and his inhumanity. Let the public be his judge.

But the possible consequences…

In the present, Charles is frowning. “Uncle and his associates cannot be allowed to walk free, you’ve convinced me of that. But informing the public of their crimes won’t just affect me. The truth about mutants may come out. Are we prepared for that?”

Erik had spent much of the last few days asking himself the same question. He has an answer now. “We’ve spent too long living in the shadows, in silence and in shame. Enough.”

“Do you think it’s that easy?”

“No. But I’ll fight to the last drop of blood to defend our people.”

Charles opens his mouth to reply – then stops, his eyes widening slightly. “And you’d do the same for me,” he murmurs, sounding awed. He must have read the conviction from Erik’s thoughts.

Erik inclines his head, not seeing the need to say anything further.

“To be honest…” Charles exhales slowly, visibly steeling himself. “No, I don’t want to do this. Not everyone is going to believe me, you must know that, and many of them will be – unkind. But you’re right. I’m tired of the shame, Erik. I…”

He reaches out and Erik leans forward, allowing Charles to settle his fingers against his temples. Charles bites his lip.

Images rush into Erik’s mind. Suddenly they’re back in Marko’s twisted library again, then in the labs, only this time Erik is seeing _himself_ from Charles’ perspective. It’s disorienting, made worse by the way the memories seem to skip around like a broken recording, weighed down by Charles’ fear and shame and despair. Erik sees himself raise a hand, sees an ugly wreckage of jagged steel and torn pages, red splattering everywhere. Charles’ memories don’t shy away from the violence of the scene. But rather than horror, Erik’s fury seemed to have inspired something else in Charles, muted and wavering but warm all the same.

_Hope._

 

**4.**   
**_BUSINESS MOGUL KURT MARKO FACES ALLEGATIONS OF SEXUAL ABUSE AND TORTURE FROM HIS NEPHEW_**  
_The reclusive young Lord Xavier of Westchester breaks his silence today, stepping forward to accuse his uncle and legal guardian…[…]…Lord Xavier had first entered Marko’s care when he was six…[…]…Police investigations of the ancestral Xavier estate have revealed the presence of numerous obscene materials…[…]…Lord Xavier has also levied accusations at multiple business associates connected to Marko……_

***

The water is at the perfect temperature. His limbs loose and languid with a pleasant post-coital haze, Charles relaxes deeper into the bathtub, smiling in drowsy contentment at the noises of Erik splashing around behind him. Eventually, Erik settles down, and Charles makes a pleased sound as Erik cards his fingers through his hair, scratching against his sensitive scalp with _just_ the right amount of pressure.

“Oh yes, do that again, please.”

Erik obliges, and for a few minutes everything else melts away except for the comfort of Erik’s body bracketed around his, hot water lapping against their skin. But then Charles feels the gears of Erik’s mind clicking, purposeful and precise.

“I was going over some reports with Azazel earlier,” Erik’s voice is carefully even. “I don’t know if you’ve heard yet, but Kurt Marko will be going up for trial soon.”

Charles winces slightly, half-wishing that Erik wouldn’t talk about Uncle _here_. “I’ve heard,” he says, matching every bit of Erik’s careful neutrality. “Several of his associates may be facing criminal charges as well.”

He hears a splash of water as Erik shrugs. “Not that it matters. Most likely they’ll all be let off the hook. Money talks.”

“No faith in the justice system, my friend?”

“None at all.”

Charles can’t even disagree entirely, but as always, he opts for the diplomatic approach. “Well, do let’s at least give them a chance to get things right. Whichever way the trial goes, Uncle will no longer be a threat to us.”

“How are things with the lawyers?”

“Everything has been finalised. The estate, the fortune – they’re all under my name once more.”

Vicious satisfaction flares in Erik’s mind, but the motions of his hands are gentle against Charles’ scalp. “Good.”

Charles smiles to himself, glad he can give Erik at least one bit of good news. “You know, I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh?”

“ _You_ could put the estate to good use.”

Erik chuckles. His breath tickles the back of Charles’ neck, sending a pleasant shiver up his spine. “What would I need a mansion for?”

“Think about it,” Charles insists. He turns to face Erik fully. “We – _you_ could make it a safe haven. For mutants. You told me before that you’ve rescued children before. The mansion could be a safe place for them, or for anyone injured or unable or otherwise unwilling to fight. You’ve been there, you know there’s more than enough room for everyone.”

Erik studies him with dark eyes. “And what will you be doing while all of that is going on?”

Trust Erik to cut to the heart of the matter. His good mood evaporating, Charles looks down, watching the way rivulets of water run down Erik’s skin. “I haven’t quite decided yet.”

But he doesn’t want to go back to the mansion. Not yet, anyway.

Erik is still watching him, and Charles takes some comfort from the familiar metronomic tick of Erik’s mind as he works through a problem. “I think using the mansion is a good idea,” he finally says. “I’ll talk to Emma and Azazel about getting something set up.”

“You’re not doing it yourself?”

“No.” The tiniest hint of a smile is playing around the edges of Erik’s mouth. His mind is a dizzying, intoxicating mix of fondness and determination. “I have other business I need to take care of. Shaw had a rather extensive network overseas. Now that things are settling down here, I’d like to continue dismantling his empire.”

_Overseas._ Somewhere Charles will be unknown, just another anonymous face in the crowd. No reporters dodging his steps, no one watching him with the sort of greed and scorn that makes him feel as if he’s being flayed apart.

“Is that,” Charles’ tongue darts out to wet his lips, “an invitation?”

Erik’s smile broadens. “Come with me, Charles.”

The thought of refusing never crosses Charles’ mind. He leans in for a kiss, which Erik swiftly deepens, cupping his face with equal parts fondness and urgency. _Stay with me._

Charles can only smile. _Yes. Yes, of course._ He kisses Erik again, slow and deep, and for the first time, Charles allows himself to dream of the future.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [That's how it is (the yew tree Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19905418) by [Akasanata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akasanata/pseuds/Akasanata)
  * [Covert Art for- The Yew Tree](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22046491) by [JackyJango](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackyJango/pseuds/JackyJango)




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